Quiet Magic
by Serpent Tailed Angel
Summary: When Michael's presence in town sets off a string of murders, he's more than eager to find the killer. Particularly because until then, he's the sheriff's prime suspect. There's just enough doubt of his guilt that Fisk would rather not go hunting for killers, but then how else will he keep Michael from harassing the mysterious magica boy who works at their inn?
1. Chapter 1

_Fisk_

It was raining again, just like it had been the night we got into this whole mess.

Okay. In all fairness, that's more than a bit of a stretch. If I wanted to go so far back in time as to blame our misadventure rescue Miss Ceciel, I might as well go back far enough to blame the woman's parents for giving birth to her. But I didn't quite feel like being fair right then. And off all the events that had sequentially led to our setting up camp in the mud, the fiasco involving our release and not-quite-recapture of her was the easiest to blame, given the outcome of it.

"There was no reason for you to show them your tattoos."

"The sheriff asked whether or not I had them," Michael said, which was a fair enough point, even if I still didn't feel like being fair. "'Twould have gone far worse if I had refused. How was I to know he would have us barred from the town?"

Perhaps because it was such a common reaction to people learning that he was marked unredeemed. The marks stigma Michael had taken on almost two years ago in favor of turning a woman over to the law after she used him for experiments that would not have been legal had he possessed any legal rights at the time… which he had permanently forfeited when he was tattooed. At least he had gotten better about hiding the marks in the past few years, but all the same…

"In that case, you shouldn't have gotten involved in that fight."

Michael gave me an apologetic smile before not apologizing at all. "'Twas an unfair match. Master Benison was much smaller and stood no chance, even though he was in the right. And you know he was. Just because…"

I tuned Michael out then. He was either explaining why it was the noble and proper thing to do, or explaining how he knew that deep down I knew that it was the noble and proper thing to do. Either way, I was more concerned with finding somewhere dry to sleep. Or at least not so wet and muddy that my boots sunk into the ground when I stepped there. We were near mining territory, so when we learned we would be without an inn for the night I had hoped we might come across a cave, but when I thought about it now I realized that had been wishful thinking. I gave up on looking for something less muddy and turned my attention back to Michael

"…I don't see how a person could ever stand by and let that happen. And that young woman had looked so grateful—"

"That's nice. I don't suppose you and your sense of fair play can find us somewhere dry to sleep?"

Michael paused, taken aback by the realization that he didn't have my full attention, but he recovered quickly and shook his head. "There's another town nearby. If we were to hurry, mayhap we could reach it by sunrise."

Given his tone I took the suggestion to be an attempt at apologizing for getting us kicked out of Cranbor, but as far as apologies went, it was a lousy one. There was no way either of us would ride all through the night, and given the hesitant glance he cast Chant's way, it was clear he wasn't eager to risk overtaxing his horse.

I resigned myself to a night of misery and helped Michael secure the horses before setting packs somewhere that was, if not dry, then at least elevated. Our bedrolls would have to be set in the mud, but there was no reason to get everything else filthy. I decided that Michael could be the one to clean them in the morning. Since it was his fault we were sleeping in the mud, it was only fair.

And maybe I was being a little unfair when I tossed Michael his bedroll and said "I don't suppose you remember our discussion from before? After you were tossed off that cliff."

"'Twas a success," was his automatic reply.

Not by a longshot, but we had argued enough already about how close you had to come to dying before a plan was no longer a success, and in the end it wasn't a subject worth trying to out-stubborn Michael on. "Not that. The part where you didn't die when you were tossed over the cliff."

Michael paused in the middle of untying the strap that held his bedroll secure, and when he finally spoke his voice came out clipped. "Yes?"

The look of discomfort on his face, visible enough even as the raincloud obscured sunlight faded, was almost enough to make me drop the subject. Almost. It was impossible not to know that the subject of his magic made Michael uncomfortable, given how long it had taken for him to admit to it at all. But whether he liked to think about it or not, it _was_ a topic worth trying to out-stubborn him on.

"I told you that you should try and train your magic. You can make water wetter. I don't suppose you could make it _less_ wet too? Or maybe convince the ground to be drier."

"The mud shall be nice and soft, Fisk," he told me.

"We'll sink into it. Tomorrow someone will find us half buried, suffocated in the night when the mud pulled us too far under to breath."

Michael laughed at that and pressed his boot into the mud, lifting it up after to show how far in he could make himself sink. "'Tis hardly deep enough. Your hair won't get more than a little dirty."

Lying in mud overnight? I doubted that. But Michael had already accepted our sleeping conditions and if I was going to get him to use magic, then tonight was not the night. "Alright. But we're still going to talk about this. And you're washing our gear tomorrow. That mud is deeper than our bedrolls are thick."

He nodded, relief over having gotten out of the unpleasant conversation plain as day on his face. I could hardly get him to discuss his power when it flared up, much less when there are no urgent matters involving it. But that only made it worth trying to keep pressing him. And if it made him uncomfortable tonight than served him right. I wouldn't exactly be comfortable in these sleeping conditions either.

After a few more minutes search I found the shallowest path of mud I was going to and laid out my bedroll. It made a sick, squishing noise as I crawled into it, and I tried to ignore the feeling of mud creeping up around the fabric. Glancing back at Michael, he seemed to have located a similar spot and already put himself to bed.

"I'm still not happy about this," I let him know. "Tomorrow, if we see trouble, I'm tying you to Chant before you can get us involved."

"Good night, Fisk."

-x-

**STA**: Good news for everyone who left a review previously in response to one of my old author's notes: I've started rewriting this. The comments you were responding to no longer exist.

The story's getting a smaller scale treatment than the other one I've rewritten did. _Count Back From Ten_ didn't have a plan when I started it (and was, in fact, the story that made me add some restrictions to how planned out and how into a fic I had to be before I posted it). That story was _completely_ rewritten. New plot. Pacing got revised. I even shifted it from first to third person perspective. Because I actually don't like working in first person that much. Basically, there were enough major changes that it got a total overhaul. I rewrote it from scratch. Didn't even look back over my older version before starting fresh.

My issue with _Quiet Magic_ was more stylistic. I didn't mind the plot and even liked a lot of the narration and banter enough that I would hate to lose it, but there were enough details that I didn't like… well, I started this in 2011. And last updated it in 2013. (I think I added two chapters that year?) My writing isn't the stuff of legend, but it had improved enough since beginning this that it felt like it would be too awkward to finish it without giving the older chapters a facelift. I printed 'em off and retyped the whole thing.

If I just edited the old documents, I'd correct punctuation that I knew better for and maybe switch out words here or there, but while the edits I wanted to make weren't _total overhaul_ stuff, but they were big enough that I didn't want to battle the temptation to just copy and paste. I had the old chapters in front of me for reference and the new version has most of the same content, but I've added some things here and there. Cleaned up dialogue. Fixed up parts where the characters jump to conclusions and don't explain why. Paid enough attention to the setting to actually _describe _it. Things like that. Same story, but hopefully a smoother read.

(That being said, I'm only up to chapter 5 of the rewrite so far. If my effort dies out before I'm done... Iunno. Guess I'll repost the original versions of those later chapters.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Michael_

'Twas far from the best sleep I'd ever had, but not quite my worst either. I had slept outside in rain before, though usually much lighter, as had Fisk. Even the mud that seemed to have risen up as we slept and attempted to consume everything was not a condition I was entirely unfamiliar with. In truth, the storm was not the worst part, however inconvenient it may have been. 'Twas Fisk's grumbling that kept me awake.

After all our time outdoors Fisk was far better about it than he was when we first met, though he still takes every opportunity to let me know his dislike for camping in bad weather. I'm hardly a fan of it myself.

The skies showed no clouds that morning, which I almost pointed out, but Fisk would only complain that now that it had waited until we were able to take shelter in an inn that the weather cleared. As it was, I already expected to spent the morning listening to him complain about the previous night. That his first act upon waking up was to pry his muddy bedroll from the ground and hold it up for me to see already promised as much.

"I'll have to wash it once we reach an inn," I told him.

"As long as they're clean the next time we have to use them."

That was a sentiment I could agree with. The suction noise the mud made as I pulled my own bedroll from it was far from appealing. Mud had seeped through the bedroll over the night, drying in some places while remaining damp in others. Even the back of my clothes felt grimy.

Packing is usually a job I usually left for Fisk, who is better at organizing everything, but as he was already in a foul mood I took it upon myself to get my own gear put away. As I lifted the bedroll up onto Chant's back my sleeve caught on a branch, exposing the tattoo on my wrist.

It had been a long time since the eerie white glow of their magic, something I would never be able to see were it not for Ceciel's experiments, had disturbed me, but I sometimes forgot to take care for how they might disturb others. To my knowledge they looked like regular black ink to everyone else, but that was enough to warn anyone that I was an unredeemed man. Forever outside the law for committing a crime I could not repay the victim for.

In truth, 'twas nothing horrible. Lady Ceciel was far from the fair maiden in need of rescue that I had taken her for, but she wasn't the murderess that she was to be tried for either. Had I brought her to court, she wouldn't have had a just trial. But the full story behind the marks was too long to give each time someone saw them, and far harder to believe than the common assumption: that I was a murderer myself. One with a wealthy father who had paid to spare me from hanging. There were times when a nobleman's accent wasn't particularly helpful. The flogging scars on my back, the result of another unlikely encounter, this one with a mad sea captain, only bolstered the conclusion most came to.

The tattoos had caused us enough trouble in the past twenty-four hours. I pulled my sleeve back over them.

When I turned back Fisk was counting our coins, which were always sparse. It had been over a month since I held our money. Judging by his expression we had enough to secure ourselves lodging for the night, but we must have been running low.

"If we spend enough time in the next town, then maybe we could find work there," Fisk said. "There wasn't much we could have done in Cranbor anyway."

If he spent the morning thinking of our funds, he would be too distracted to complain about the mud. Believing myself to be off the hook, I breathed a sigh of relief. Fisk, however, became tense.

"Fisk?"

He didn't response. I followed his faze to see horses approaching from the direction of Cranbor.

"'Tis no great concern. They must be unhappy with how close to town we are, and we were preparing to leave."

"Yeah…"

But Fisk wouldn't let his gaze stray from them, staring as I finished packing. Once he even asked if my Gift for sensing danger was acting up, which it was not. But then it had always been an unreliable ability, and even when it did prick in the back of my conscious, 'twas impossible to tell what exactly had set it off.

I had just finished getting everything secured on Chant's back when the horses reached us, six total. I recognized the man in front of the group to be the sheriff, who had personally escorted me out of town the night before. At the time he had been pleasant enough, explaining that it was nice of me to step in and come to that man's aid, but they couldn't have an unredeemed man in a peaceful town like theirs. I had been met with worse responses than that. But this morning he seemed far more serious. I thought I might greet him and see if his expression would soften, but couldn't recall his name.

"Is something the matter, Master Portman?" Fisk asked. "If we're too close to town, we were on our way out."

Though annoyance at our ignorance of the issue showed on the faces of several men Portman had brought with him, he kept his expression steady as he responded. "I'm afraid your friend is under arrest."

"On what charge?" Fisk demanded. "We left like you asked. We slept in the mud and _rain_ last night, and we were here the whole time."

"Can you prove that?" Portman asked. Of course we couldn't, having only one another to proclaim our innocent. When Fisk didn't answer, he continued. "A young man was found dead last night. Strangled, from the looks of it. We haven't had a serious crime in over twenty-five years, and suddenly there's a murder just as an unredeemed man passes through town? Sounds suspicious, doesn't it?"

I was still processing that someone had been found dead when Fisk came to my defense. "Michael would never—"

"We'll determine that ourselves," another man, one of Portman's deputies, cut in. Portman sent him a silencing look.

"Plenty of men saw Michael's tattoos. An unredeemed man makes an excellent cover up, doesn't it?" Fisk tried to argue.

"Plenty? It couldn't have been more than fifteen, and news only travels so fast at night," the deputy said. Portman shot him another look.

"We'll keep the possibility that someone took advantage of his presence in mind," Portman promised, though something in his tone made me shiver, and I didn't expect him to look for anyone who might have taken advantage of my being there.

Fisk considered Portman a moment, and must have seen something more reliable than I had, for he said, "You won't hang him without proof, will you?"

"Of course not. But until this matter is settled I would like to keep him securely locked away. It would hardly do to let him roam free when he might be killing innocents."

"But we were leaving," I protested. 'Twas, I realized, the first thing I had managed to say since the declaration that I was to be arrested. 'Twas also not the best argument to make, given the situation, but I didn't realize this until it had already been said.

Fisk looked as though he was resisting saying something colorful, but the sheriff only regarded me as though I was mad. I had told a deputy the night before that I was a knight errant when he came to break up the bar brawl, and my occupation might have been mentioned to the sheriff on the way out to arrest me. 'Twas a job that often had people think I was mad.

There was no taking back that information, nor changing that I had said what might be taken as a protest at a failed getaway. After looking back and forth between myself and Portman several times Fisk shrugged.

"You're going to look into the murder first?" he verified.

"We're only taking precautions for the time being. If we had any other suspects, we could keep them locked away too while we conducted the investigation."

'Twas hardly comforting to hear I was the only suspect, but there wasn't much I could do about it just then.

"What about my squire?" I asked, gesturing to Fisk when I saw Portman's baffled look. "Is he still forbidden from entering town?"

"He was never forbidden in the first place," Portman informed me, which annoyed me more than it should have, silly as it was. "That being said, we would like him to come back so we can keep an eye on him. I trust he'll go wherever you do."

The glint of amusement in Portman's eyes only annoyed me more. At this point I hardly expected Fisk to leave me by myself, not after he had chosen to follow me for so long, but if he had been able to stay in town and pay for shelter the night before then he wouldn't have been able to keep me up half the night with his complaints about how _muddy_ mud was.

"Michael and I aren't—"

"'Twill be alright," I assured Fisk. "Once they see I had nothing to do with this, we'll be on our way."

I'm not a good liar. Nor do I like to lie. I considered withholding my concern that the real criminal might not be found to be a small lie in and of itself, for it meant the situation was _not _alright. But Fisk was adept at reading my face and could see that I was aware of that possibility, and 'twould do me no good to speak too much about it in front of the sheriff. 'Twould look like I was acting, and he had yet to know me well enough to know that I'm not a good actor either.

Fisk sighed. "Very well, Noble Sir. I'll find an inn until then."

-x-

**STA**: Have I ever mentioned that I'm not a fan of first person narration?

I mean, I don't mind reading it too awfully much, but I find it so… confining. I want to see _everything_, not just the ultra-personal viewpoint of one character. Being able to switch between characters helps a bit, but then it presents a new challenge in making them sound different. That's enough of a pain when I only have to worry about making sure that all of the characters' dialogue doesn't sound too much like me. My language choices are pretty casual, and I've made no effort to alter how I usually talk and/or write while working with Fisk, but Michael's way of talking is super distinctive, and when he narrates I have to keep it in mind _all chapter long_. I hope I got it… I don't know… at least decent. Like it doesn't just sound like me but with all my _it's_ swapped with _'tis_.

Just as a side note, I also hate writing in present tense. And I really can't stand to read present tense either. _Especially_ in first person. So super confining. You can only see what the character sees. They can only tell you things as they happen. I just can't stand it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Fisk_

I was silent as they led us to the sheriff's office, and I must have looked like I was sulking. In all honesty, I probably was. Michael already sought out enough trouble, we didn't need any more finding us on its own. Particularly not in a fashion where Michael was already in danger of hanging if things went even the slightest bit wrong. Until he was free, I would have to take care not to act the slightest bit suspicious.

There were no plans to lock me up. Not yet, at least. But I was still to be questioned.

They questioned us separately.

That I couldn't be there while Michael was questions frustrated me to no end, and I paced back and forth down the hallway outside Portman's office while I waited for him to finish his chat with Michael. No doubt the fool was telling every last detail of the truth. He always did. At least in this case it wouldn't do us any harm, since he had nothing to hide. In fact, it might even be to our benefit. A lifetime of pathological honesty had given Michael a natural talent for convincing people of his sincerity. Even if his tattoos made him suspect, his open face would help cast doubt on his presumed guilt.

To make use of my time as I paced, I considered whether or not I should follow Michael's example, or fabricate a few details here and there to make the story shine a nicer light on us. By the time I was invited in, I figured the truth and nothing but was my best route. Small details here and there might not be checked, but I was dealing with an unfamiliar sheriff and if he was thorough than my attempts to embellish the truth might get Michael in trouble. If I were a sheriff handling the first murder the town had seen in over two decades, I would try to cover everything I could, and that would include making sure the stories of my primary suspect and his companion matched.

Michael would likely deny anything I fabricated, and even if he had the sense to go along with it, I didn't trust him not to tip his hand. It would be safer to follow his example and be as honest as possible.

Michael was led out of Portman's office and down into a basement before I was allowed in. Had I still been with Jack, I would have expected something to work with in that time. A small signal, or a phrase that would let me know what to lie about or how long to wait before coming after him with lock-picks. Michael only gave me an uneasy smile before he was nudged downstairs.

Nothing that had happened since Michael got into that brawl the night before made me feel even the slightest bit relaxed as I stepped into the office. My insides felt as though they were in knots, in fact. But nerves didn't keep me from taking in my surroundings.

The office was simple, holding only the most necessary furniture. The only thing to be seen that might pass for decorations was the paperwork spread everywhere. As I took a seat across the desk from Portman I saw the name Michael on a report that still needed to be reviewed. One for a claim of unprovoked violence. I meant to protest it, since Michael had stepped into that fight the night before to defend someone, not out of lust for causing harm, but Portman's questions began before I had the chance.

"What were you doing the night when you passed through here?"

"Looking for lodging." Too simple? Would more detail be suspicious?

"Why did you come to Cranbor?"

"We were only passing through." Far too simple. "We travel. Disregarding that there are some… difficulties with Michael staying in any one place too long, he fancies himself a knight errant, and has declared me his squire." I knew he had mentioned this the night before, and would better all the money we owned that he had told Portman. "He likes to roam around, like a knight from ballads, and he gets his 'good deeds' in the form of lending a hand with odd jobs here and there."

Sometimes he even got his good deed in by stopping killers, but I saw no need to mention that. Saying that the murder suspect exposed murderers? It would raise suspicion, for one, and maybe make me look like a bad actor too. I had to maintain a credible image for this interview.

Besides, in the unlikely chance that they did believe me, they might take it as a sign I wanted to help catch their killer. While it was unfortunate that a boy was dead, I had no interest in putting myself in harm's way to avenge someone I didn't even know the name of.

The sheriff kept a straight face as I spoke, but the amused light that danced in his eyes told me that he was recalling a far more entertaining account from Michael. The look faded as he asked the next question.

"Did you stop anywhere in town? Talk to anyone?"

"We asked one man for directions to a good inn, and he told us how to get to The Chestnut," I recalled. It was in a nice neighborhood, and clean too, if a bit on the small side. The room Michael and I had planned to spend the night in had a bed that we could both squeeze into, and just enough room for us to set our luggage without blocking the door. But it's size made it cheap. "We spoke to the owner when we arranged for the room and ordered dinner, and didn't talk to anyone else until Michael got himself involved in that fight, which I believe you already questioned both of us on. After that we left town, and didn't speak with anyone on the way out."

Portman nodded. "And why did you stop at The Chestnut?"

"So we wouldn't have to sleep in the rain." Being honest made me forget to feign politeness. The amused light returned to Portman's eyes at the tartness in my voice.

"And I suppose the two of you were there all night?"

"That's right… sir."

"Alright." Portman stood. "That will do for now."

I rose as well and asked, "May I see Michael?"

"No."

I hadn't expected such a blunt and abrupt response, and waited a moment to see if he'd say anything else. Give a gesture. Any sign of annoyance or apology. He only stood at his desk, watching me with an unreadable expression.

"Alright." I threw my hands up in surrender. "If I ever am allowed to visit him, will you let me know?"

"I'll send someone if that happens. You'll be returning to The Chestnut?" The sheriff gathered up a pile of papers as he asked, and I remembered the report that had named Michael.

"I suppose so. Might as well see if I can still get that room we paid for. Sir, he really is a good man, in spite of the tattoos."

"He seemed like one," Portman acknowledged, which made my legs feel weak with relief, and I wished I hadn't stood before speaking. "I'd like to hear how a young man like him ended up with those marks. At the moment, however, I need to find another young man's killer."

I nodded and showed myself to the door. I was halfway out it when a thought occurred to me. "The boy who died, is it possible I could see the report on him?"

I had no desire to track down his killer. That sort of thing had a tendency to get killers interested in you. But Michael and I had been involved in enough crazy schemes that I might notice something in the details of the report that I could use to prove Michael's innocence. And if it got serious, I may even find myself looking for the real killer to save Michael from the noose. I wasn't quite that desperate yet, but give it a week or two…

"The information is classified," the sheriff told me. Before I could so much as open my mouth to argue, he added "The details of a murder like this shouldn't reach public ear. Not that something like that ever stops the town from hearing about it anyway."

Go ask the townsfolk, he meant. "I see. Thank you, sir."

-o-

True to my word, I went to The Chestnut. I hardly knew my way around town, and the sooner I got there the better my odds of bargaining for the room back before it was given to someone else. I could earn money fast, if I needed, but card tricks weren't the best idea when the only two things in Michael's favor were that there was that the evidence against him was circumstantial, and that we had yet to be judged as shady for any reason other than the tattoos.

Other than its owner, The Chestnut had only one worker, who I had only caught a glimpse of in the kitchen the night before. He was a boy a few years my junior, who was sweeping the bar at the entrance to the inn when I arrived. He smiled when he recognized me, and I tried to ask him about the murders. He seemed to be quite troubled by the incident, but turned out to be mute. He could still listen and nod well enough, which was all it took for us to agree that I had paid for a room and didn't need to pay again until the next night. Despite the size of our room, The Chestnut was just big enough to have a stable for Chant and Tipple, and I got them secured and left Trouble with the boy. It seemed to me that the two cripples might bond over their common loss.

It was still too early for most to be up yet, so I would have no luck asking for details on the murder. Any rumors on it likely would need an hour or two to begin circulating first. For the sheriff to have come when he did, the sheriff must have been roused from his bed in the middle of the night to come when he did. Had the rain not made me sleep so poorly, Michael and I may have still been in bed when he found us.

On that note, I washed the mud from my hair and took a quick nap. Eager as I was to see what I could do to clear Michael's name, my mind would work better when rested. What good would it do me to questions anyone if I was too tired to remember their answers?

One more reason it was good I stuck to the truth earlier. Thanks to Jack I have no shortage of practice with making stories up under pressure, but there's a difference between excusing a hole in your story to a gullible mark and lying to the man determining whether or not to hang your friend.

-x-

**STA:** Irony is staying up until three in the morning to finish rewriting a chapter that ends with the character realizing that he needs to be well rested to function.


	4. Chapter 4

_Michael_

I had assumed that my time in jail would last at least a week. More, if the sheriff was generous in giving me the benefit of the doubt, or, preferably, if Fisk managed to turn up evidence pointing to someone other than me. As it was, I only spent a night in my cell.

Nothing was amiss the next morning. I was brought my meal by a disgusted young deputy who no doubt believed me to be the killer, then left me to eat by myself. He gave no indicator that they had more evidence on me, nor that the sheriff might not be fully convinced that I had taken that man's life.

As far as breakfast in jail went, 'twas one of my better meals. And the humor in having been in a situation such as this enough times to rank the meals they served kept my dread at bay until I remembered that while I had been held often, 'twas usually because whoever had been assigned to escort me out of the town or fief wanted to wait until morning. While I had been accused of murder more than once before, I had never been successfully arrested for it.

I didn't know what to make of Portman, who had kept his expression as controlled as he could when he questioned me. Even when I mentioned that I was a knight, he had barely reacted. The cells were equally confusing. There were twelve in all, which struck me as too large a number for a town that had been decades without true crime. I wondered if they might keep a man caged for such small offenses as disturbing the peace, and grew more worried about how serious they would then handle a murderer.

With no windows in the cells 'twas impossible to tell time, but I guessed it to be close to noon when the deputy from before returned. I was disappointed at first that he had neglected to bring lunch, but forgave him for his when he produced the key to my cell and unlocked the door.

As I rose to my feet, I asked, "Am I to be questioned again?"

The man fixed me with a hard glare and gestured for me to follow, which I would have been fool not to.

"Have you caught that poor man's killer?" I tried again as he led me upstairs. He continued to ignore me.

My next question would have been to ask if they had decided I should be executed, but this fearful idea was brushed aside as soon as I reached to top step. Fisk stood only a few feet from the stairway, and smiled reassuringly before resuming a discussion he was in the middle of with Portman. Although Fisk is a much better actor than I, I've seen him try and perform under stress. Going by the easiness of his smile, neither of us were in danger of dying at the moment.

Portman broke the conversation off before I could make sense of it—something to do with payment for rooms—and addressed me. "We'll be releasing you for the moment, but know you'll be watched. Until this is cleared up, you're still a suspect. If we catch you trying to leave before the case is cleared, we will have to assume you are fleeing the scene of a crime, and know that we will have writs sent to every town in this fief."

All of which would realize the urgency of executing an unredeemed man who had murdered yet again. Never mind that I had yet to murder once.

I could do nothing but nod to what he said. 'Twould do me no good to argue. He nodded back and left me with the deputy, as fast to the point and uninterested in conversing over the details as he had been the previous day.

Fisk had noticed as well. "He doesn't say any more than he has to, does he?"

"Not at all. I would like to leave soon, knowing a man like that suspects me." The deputy held my arm as he led me out of the building, but I saw no need to avoid saying as much in front of him.

Fisk shrugged. "There's not much to be done about it right now. Besides, you managed to convince him that you're a decent person. Or maybe he's just a good judge of character. You're not the best at convincing people of things."

An unfair statement if I'd ever heard one, for I persuaded people to listen to and help us at least as often as Fisk did, and 'twas because they took me for the honest man the realized my squire wasn't. That wasn't to say that Fisk would cheat a man. His days as a con artist were over. But he still used the skill for spinning tales that he had developed during that time to persuade others.

As we were led down the front steps of the building it occurred to me that he still wasn't acting. The calm in his voice, much too calm considering I was a murder suspect and he might be my accomplice, was genuine.

The deputy released me and returned to the building. Not a word from him the whole time. Even had the sheriff not judged me to be a decent person, I was glad to know it was him and not that deputy who would determine whether or not I was put on trial. Or if I should even get a trial before judgment was passed.

I waited for the man to shut the door behind himself before asking, "Fisk, what happened?"

Fisk didn't meet my eye when he responded. "Something in our favor." Something I wouldn't like, no doubt. But he didn't elaborate. "Come on. Let's go back to the inn. It's small there, but more private."

'Twas then that I noticed we were not alone on the streets. None of the sheriff's men stared openly, but the townsmen who passed by made no attempt to mask the glares and cautious curiosity they directed at me as they went by. A private place might unease the sheriff, but it sounded like a fine idea to me.

"Word travels fast in towns," Fisk told me as he led the way. "By the time work started yesterday everyone knew that there had been a murder. The news that the sheriff was holding an unredeemed man had made it to most of the town by supper, and most of them came to the same conclusion as Portman did. I only spoke to one or two who weren't completely convinced you weren't at fault, and a few wouldn't talk to me for traveling with you."

A tired sense of déjà vu passed over me. A murder was a far more serious crime that I was used to, but I had been blamed for everything from arson to stealing apples, and found the idea of going around town with so many accusing gazes yet again to be a nuisance at best. Dangerous at worst, for I had been chased by mobs before. Thankfully, Fisk had figured out a path from the sheriff's office to the inn that took us down many less traveled streets, and the further we were from the sheriff's office, the fewer people recognized me as the main suspect.

Our inn was the same one where I had stepped into a the brawl two days earlier that had forced me to show my tattoos, and I couldn't help but wonder what had possessed Fisk to return to it. It may have rented rooms cheap, but no price was worth standing before a man as large as the inn keeper had been when he knew without any uncertainty that I was unredeemed. Not when there was a killer on the loose.

The owner, who had identified himself as Belmont the other night, had no doubt been a coal miner before he came to own the inn. He was both taller and broader than me, and would have struck me as a thug had he not warn such a warm expression our first night in Cranbor.

To my surprise, he smiled every bit as warmly when he saw me enter. Mayhap he believed I wouldn't strangle a young man to his death after putting myself in harm's way to help a weaker man.

My relief at seeing that I was not on Belmont's bad side was enough to make me comfortable with him, but Fisk was not as trusting. He pulled me into our room, the very one we had been denied when the sheriff first learned I was unredeemed, and checked the halls to make sure no one might be listening in before he spoke.

"There was another murder. A woman this time. Also strangled. You were locked up at the time, which is about as airtight as alibis get. The sheriff's department can't exactly suspect themselves of lying about your whereabouts. I did hear some people say I'd done it, though. A few of the townsfolk who saw me go to fetch you kept quite a distance."

The news stunned me. My superficial freedom had been earned at the cost of an innocent woman's life. I would have gladly spent another week or two in my cell if it meant she hadn't been slain, though it was too late now to make such a bargain.

"Why was she—"

"Why she was killed doesn't matter," Fisk told me. "Portman has enough sense to realize it wasn't you, and there was a man who stayed in the lobby drinking until well after I went to my room last night. He was loud enough, but he got every other part of acting like a drunk wrong." He paused to see if he would need to explain this, but Fisk had pointed it out to me before when men were set to watch us discreetly. While I don't have Fisk's sharp eye for them, I could recognize when he pointed one out. I nodded to show I understood. "The two murders were done in the same fashion. Strangled in the middle of the night. Whoever killed them might have learned about your presence quickly, but not heard that you were locked up afterward."

"So they would have to be an inn patron?"

"Anyone could have seen us while we were led out of town." Fisk flashed me a rueful grin as he went on. "I suppose it's also possible we have two killers. The second one might have tried to imitate you to make it look like only one person. But that's not too likely."

"Why not?"

"Because we know you didn't kill Harold," Fisk told me.

I might have objected to the amount of mockery in his voice had he taken that tone with me at another time. But two people were already dead, so I let it go for the time being. "Harold?"

"The stable boy who died the first night," Fisk elaborated.

"Did he have any enemies. Any connection to this girl? Miss…?"

Fisk realized what I was thinking of, and scowled. "We're not going after a murderer. That's the sheriff's job. You'd be best served to lie low until the real killer is caught."

"Suppose he doesn't find them? We can't leave until he knows I didn't kill that man."

"Then you might find you're well suited to work as a miner, and I might be able to work for someone as their clerk," Fisk said stubbornly. "We nearly died chasing those wreckers, Michael. I'm not dealing with anyone else who doesn't mind killing. I can't watch you go over the edge of a cliff again."

He stressed the last sentence, sincere concern and even pain lacing into his voice, and I couldn't help but imagine what it must have felt like to watch me fall. But as the one who had nearly died that night, I felt my situation at the time had been worse, so the appeal to emotion held me at bay only a moment.

"We _didn't_ die stopping the wreckers. And our efforts saved lives," I argued. "Fisk, think of that poor woman. Suppose he goes after another one. And with no witnesses—"

"There was a witness," Fisk interrupted. He looked torn, as if he was unsure whether the details he gave me would keep me from going after the killer, or provide me with more information with which to hunt me down. "The woman's employer saw her go into a shed on the property where she worked with a large man. Nearly seven feet, from what I heard. Although rumors tend to embellish. That was where they found her body in the morning."

Seven feet! Even the inn keeper wasn't that tall, and he was taller than me, and I taller than Fisk. But darkness might make a person see things differently, and as Fisk had pointed out, everything in a story grew when the tale was retold.

"Suppose we spoke to this employer—"

There was a light rap on the door, and Fisk scurried to answer it rather than continue with his efforts to dissuade me.

Fisk opened the door to reveal a boy several years younger than either of us. He carried a plate in each hand and smiled at Fisk.

"Hello, Aaron. Thank you for bringing out meals." Fisk's tone was friendly. He must have liked the boy. I wondered if he knew…

The boy nodded and handed one plate to Fisk. He then scanned the small room for his other customer and, when he saw me, went rigid. For a moment I thought he might back out of the room, but the look of surprise that flashed across his face was quickly masked, and he set the plate down within my reach.

I bent down and picked it up, not caring to keep my tattoos concealed, for the boy clearly worked here, and his employer didn't care that I was unredeemed. His eyes locked on the marks for a moment, and he straightened up and smiled again, although it now looked forced.

Neither of us said anything, staring at one another with forced smiles. The boy finally tore his gaze away and looked to Fisk, who was watching me with the sort of interest that always promised unpleasant conversations.

"Thank you, Aaron," Fisk repeated.

Aaron nodded again and backed out of the room, stealing one more glance at me before he shut the door.

"We should cover those," Fisk said, gesturing to my tattoos.

"Lunch first," I told him. 'Twas not as if the whole town didn't already know. There wasn't much worse that could come from them seeing the marks. Although with that boy, it may have been different.

I wouldn't be surprised if he could see the glow of my tattoos, or even a glow around myself. Indeed, I now wondered if I might glow in the eyes of someone else who shared my strange power. I had always assumed I was the only one who could see magica, who could use magic without being simple, but that boy, who seemed intelligent enough, had the unmistakable glow of magic all around him.

-x-

**STA:** *dramatic music*

Actually, everything up to chapter 23 was written before _Theif's War_ came out, and I was both surprised and a little irked by the mad jeweler, as is always the case when something really interesting happens that josses my headcanon. In fact, there are quite a few details that Bell has come out with since that don't _quite_ suit what I was aiming for with this story… but I'm going to just pretend that isn't the case. So Aaron glows.

Maybe I'll tweek a few details here and there to make it better conform to newer information, but this one stays. It's just _easier_ if they can see each other's magic than if I have to make them catch each other using magic. Especially because most of the magic in _Knight and Rogue_ is so… low key. Fire balls are way more obvious than water that does a better job of putting fires out.

Incidentally… that magica key from the fourth book… did the mad jeweler make that? Magic is only supposed to appear naturally in plants and animals, and I can't think of any other way for it to appear unnaturally in a metal lock. I suppose his magic had a longer duration than Michael's does, too, considering those gems glowed about three weeks and Michael couldn't even make Chant a super horse for twelve hours.


	5. Chapter 5

Fisk

The mute, who Belmont had told me was named Aaron, wore a pleasant smile as he brought up the meals that I'd ordered before going out to retrieve Michael. I'd seen him communicate with Belmont using a series of gestures, and knew he could read and write, but I didn't know what his gestures meant and there was no paper on hand, so I couldn't communicate with him properly. That didn't stop me from thanking him, of course.

Nor did it stop him and Michael from attempting to have an conversation expressed entirely in stares.

When he left I gave Michael the flattest look I could muster. Kindness for strangers wasn't my highest priority, but Aaron had been pleasant company the previous night, and there had been no reason for Michael to deliberately show him his tattoos.

"We should cover those," I told him, gesturing to the markings.

"Lunch first," Michael insisted. For a split second I was worried he might not have been fed in his cell, but then I recognized the meal for the diversion it was.

"He's a _nice_ boy," I told Michael, stressing the word nice just enough to make it clear that I didn't want Michael harassing him. "Be careful what you say around him, though. He's mute, not deaf. And he's not stupid. He can still pass on anything he hears to others." And just in case Michael needed any sort of evidence of Aaron's character, I added, "He took over caring for Trouble while you were gone."

Michael nodded, but wouldn't meet my eye. In this case, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he wasn't avoiding my gaze so much as simply being too fascinated with what had passed through our door moments ago to think to look at me.

"Michael? Michael!"

"Huh?" Michael jolted and looked back at me, and I cursed. Now that he looked straight at me, I could recognize the look of discomfort on his face that I'd come to associate with him being unsettled by magic.

"What's wrong?"

Michael glanced at the door, then leaned close to me and said in a hushed voice, "That boy glowed."

"Glowed?" I repeated a bit too loudly for Michael's liking. I knew what it meant when something glowed in Michael's vision. Michael avoided discussing his powers as much as he could, so it wasn't often that he let me know he had seen magica. "Well, that doesn't mean much. Maybe he took magica medicine. Or perhaps he _is_ simple." He wasn't. I'd gotten a discount the night before in return for helping Aaron take care of the bar, and from what I had seen he was a sharp one. But Michael didn't need to know that.

I hadn't thought to make myself sound convinced of my theory, and the look Michael cast my way let me know he had caught my doubt. "It could be a trade-off for his voice," I suggested then. "Belmont tells me he was born without it."

"'Tis most likely that he's simple," Michael decided. "I only saw one of the children Ceciel collected after she dosed me, and I never did learn whether it was one of the ones who possessed magic. What does he help with?"

"I don't know." If Michael went at it from an angle that didn't bother him… I couldn't say I wanted him to harass Aaron, but while the trail was still warm it would be safer than if he put his energy into the murders. It might even help us understand Michael's magic, if Aaron knew more about his own powers.

"He must be simple. Sometimes they live to adulthood."

"Maybe Ceciel had a sis—a cousin," I joked, forgetting for a moment that Lady Ceciel _did_ have a sister. A perfectly sane one, even if she had supplied the crazy bat with simple children to experiment on. "Maybe Aaron was a test subject too."

Michael looked back at the door. "That could be… but 'tis not likely. That even one person would think to do something so unnatural…"

There he went again. Were his magic anything but a part of him I would have given up on trying to get him to come around to it long ago. Being a steward, if he had hated that so much that he would rather be unredeemed, fine. As for his own abilities, he was stuck with those. After nearly two years one would think he'd have accepted the idea of magic, but it still troubled him.

"Well, we'll have to look into it while we try and find this killer."

"Michael!"

"They're already using me to cover themselves, aren't they?" he pointed out. "They waited until I showed up, and people are saying you killed the other victim. No one suspects any of the townsmen and we know it had to be one of them. If they're already going to get us hung—"

"Then they won't have any qualms about strangling us too. It would keep us quiet, should we learn anything."

"Just tell me about the victims," he pleaded. "Mayhap we could find a connection between them."

"Good luck." I had meant to say it in sarcasm, but Michael's face lit up and I realized he thought I meant it. So I gave in. "The first victim was a young man named Harold Carter. He was seventeen or eighteen, from what I could tell, and worked in a stable for a man named Cedric Goodman." A ridiculous name if I'd ever heard one. "The boy had stayed late to finish some task or another. Some small repair. Goodman heard a struggle in the middle of the night and came out to find him freshly dead. He rushed to report it. The murder probably happened an hour or so after we were led out of town. The woman was a few years older. Mary Portman. I couldn't find out if she was related to the sheriff or not. Some people thought they might be cousins, but others were certain the name was a coincidence. She was the cook for a wealthy widow, and brand new to the job. There weren't many details on her circulating by the time I picked you up."

Michael nodded. "'Tis impressive that the sheriff remained so calm, if she is family."

Very impressive. I'd no doubt he had set someone to watch me last night, which I couldn't fault him for when I consorted with his main suspect. And Michael had been locked up. It would be unreasonable to suspect either of us, though men who upheld the law weren't always reasonable when those close to them were harmed. I should know. Had the judicar overseeing my trial not let the fact that I had conned his nephew cloud his judgment, I would have been able to pay my debts then and there, instead of finding myself indebted to Michael.

So perhaps it wasn't always a bad thing that the law wasn't upheld quite as Michael saw it. I certainly didn't mind having met Michael. In this case, however, I was glad to see the local authorities were big on acting reasonable.

"We should speak to him," Michael, who was often unreasonable, decided.

Speak with the man who was in charge of a murder case which we were the prime suspects for? I knew sensibility wasn't Michael's strong point, but if I were him I wouldn't go near the man unless I had to.

"_What_."

"The sheriff," Michael elaborated, as if I didn't know who he meant. "He's been fair so far, and we have reason to want this case solved, so he may let us know what he's found."

"If we _were_ the killers then we'd have reason to want the sheriff honing in on the wrong man. If we _did_ kill that stable boy then asking what the sheriff has found would let us know what evidence we could still hide. Or forge. Besides which, he wouldn't even tell me the victim's name when they first arrested you."

"But now that there's evidence to lessen the suspicion on us, he may be more willing to tell us what he knows," Michael insisted. "It couldn't hurt to try."

"No."

"I can go by myself," Michael threatened. As far as threats went, it was a good one. I didn't want to let him wander around town alone when everyone believed he'd taken two lives. I didn't want him questioning the sheriff alone either, as subtlety is not Michael's strong point. And curse him, he was well aware of the fact that he was always suspected of something awful. And that I couldn't in good conscious let himself wander into harm's way without support.

"We wouldn't learn anything," I told him, but Michael noticed that I had included myself, and grinned. Flame take him. I gave up completely then. It wasn't like we had anything to do at the moment, I figured, and being told no by the sheriff wouldn't stop him, but so long as I kept ahead of Michael on the rumors I should be able to steer him away from any murderers. I hoped.

-o-

I had first thought that I might be able to accidentally forget the way to the sheriff's, but Michael noticed the first wrong turn I tried to take us down, and I wasn't confident enough to pull the trick again.

We followed the same route as before, avoiding busier streets, but the sheriff's department was on a main street and there was no avoiding the crowd when we came upon it. Judging by the whispers I heard, word of myself and Michael was now thoroughly spread. I did my best to listen in as I followed Michael up the steps of the building, and didn't like what I heard.

From the front of the building I could see the open door to Portman's office, which meant I could see that he wasn't in his office. I also didn't see him in the main room, but if he left his office door open he must have been nearby.

There were only three deputies who I could see at the time, and I judged the one trying to deal with an angry woman to be running things in his boss's absence. He was handling the woman, who had worked herself into a fury, better than I would have. I couldn't make out much of what she was saying, her orders had been so incoherent. The most I could tell was that she wanted the killer caught, which was reasonable. She also seemed to have a reason why they ought to have the man already, but I could hardly pick it out of her ramble.

The deputy finally tired of her, and had to shout over her to let her know that the evidence they had was too vague to make any arrests. She huffed, and I could tell she still meant to argue, so I stepped in to save the poor man.

"Ma'am, perhaps you could talk to us?"

She spun around to look at me, then Michael. Realization dawned in her eyes as she recognized Michael from the description of the unredeemed man, and she looked back at me, the town's favorite suspect for the second murder, with a much more intent gaze. She studied me less than five seconds before scoffing.

"Too short."

Before I could ask what that meant, she marched past me and out of the building.

Following her would me back on that busy street, not to mention leave Michael behind. And the idea of him alone with law enforcement worried me far more than risking going out among people who thought I might be a killer. Sometimes I felt like nothing good ever came from leaving Michael alone, regardless of what circumstances or company surrounded him at the time.

I still peeked out the door to see which way she had gone. Once she disappeared around a corner, I returned to the room, and saw that watching her had been a mistake.

The deputy, whose patience the woman had already worn thin, was now arguing over the confidentiality of things with Michael. I figured it safest to pull him away, and he had the sense to stay quiet until I had dragged him back to a less traveled street, although he waited no longer than that to express his frustration.

"How are we supposed to help like this?" Michael demanded, looking almost as annoyed as the deputy had.

"We aren't. It's their job. Let them do it."

"I have to do something to help that girl find justice. I owe her that."

He _owed_ Mary Portman? I didn't bother to ask what mental gymnastics Michael had performed to come to that conclusion. It was a mystery to me, but not one worth solving. And neither were the murders.

"Aaron's a good cook. Let's get back in time for supper."

"They have a simple boy cook?" For a moment I thought I'd successfully, if unintentionally, diverted his attention, but Michael was quick to get back to the murders. "Mayhap we can speak to the witness. If we giver her a chance to see our character—"

"Because nothing screams innocent like chasing down the one witness in the case," I retorted. " We can deal with this later. For now, let's get back to the inn.

Michael scowled at me, but didn't protest any further. With two murderers and a magica boy in town, that was as much as I could have hoped for.

-o-

**STA:** After much debate, I decided to leave the Farsala Trilogy reference intact. I don't think I could fit in a Raven Duet or Shield, Sword, and Crown reference without it being too glaringly obvious, which is a load of carp, but I might be able to slide something from Goblin Wood in somewhere…


	6. Chapter 6

_Michael_

Fisk didn't want me to speak to that woman. He didn't want me to try and find the killer at all, in fact. 'Twas normal for him to pretend he didn't care about injustices that did not affect him personally, but I intended to help anyway. If the woman could hire help then she must have married higher than one of the miners, which eliminated most of Cranbor, should I need to seek her out without aid. I would have to speak to her in a crowded place so it wouldn't look as though I was trying to covertly get rid of her.

We returned to the inn where the magica boy, Aaron, Fisk insisted I call him, was still cooking, so we kept his employer company.

Henry Belmont was a large man, though not large enough to be the killer from what we had heard. While we waited to eat, he told us a story from back when he worked in the mines, and had nearly died in a cave-in. According to his tale, he survived only thanks to a fellow miner who wasted precious seconds throwing him out of the way, and had been caught under the collapsed ceiling as a reward for his heroism. Even then, it seemed that Belmont had been trapped for several days before rescue efforts were successful, though before we could hear how the story was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. Judging by how Aaron rolled his eyes as he dropped a roast chicken before the three of us, it must have been a story Belmont told often.

"It's on me," Belmont said when Fisk eyed the food.

"That's awfully generous. Can you afford to do that? You don't seem to have many patrons at the moment," Fisk noted. Always the suspicious one.

"Shipments went out two days ago. Tomorrow we'll have people coming for bargains on the remaining scraps, and I've got a couple regulars for that. You've helped Aaron here, Master Fisk, and your friend could use some kindness after the trouble he's had."

No doubt Fisk's charity had come at some price. I made a note to ask him about it later.

Aaron served everyone while Fisk continued to pry. "You believe Michael's innocent?"

Belmont laughed. "You expect me to think someone like him would kill that poor boy? Not a chance. It'd be more likely _I_ did it. It'd have made more sense for him to have throttled Master Morington instead of hunting down another victim once everyone knew he was here."

I hadn't the slightest idea who that was, but that Belmont saw I was an honest man was good to know, and I thanked him and Aaron for the meal. "'Tis very well cooked."

"My boy's had practice." Belmont patted the mute. "He's been working here for some time now. I never married, so there's no wife or children to help me run the place. I used to have a couple who worked for me, but I caught them slipping ingredients into their pockets, and every employee I hired since was worse. But he's been a great help."

Aaron nodded, suddenly looking embarrassed. I couldn't help but notice that he spared as many glaces at me as I did him, and feared that I may have been right to think he could see my magic as well.

The temptation to ask about his powers was overwhelming, and that may have shown on my face, for Fisk kicked me under the table.

Belmont didn't notice me flinch. He must have been used to talking with his patrons, and since we were the only ones there he kept going. "Are you two planning to stay long? I'd ship out, were I in your place."

"I would too," Fisk told him. "Unfortunately, it isn't an option. Until the sheriff is certain he isn't the culprit, they don't want Michael out of their reach."

"While we're here, we thought we might look into the murders ourselves. This isn't the first time we've found ourselves in a position to expose a killer." Fisk cast me a dirty look for my use of the word 'we' while he was still against the idea, but 'twas Aaron's expression that caught my attention. His look was a mixture of excitement and gratitude, though he couldn't voice what made him react so. But that anyone should want a murderous fiend caught was reason enough for me, and I didn't call attention to him.

"Then you may just do better than the sheriff." Belmont chuckled. "I wish you look. Sheriff Portman's been around fa while, but he's never had to deal with anything much worse than disturbing the peace. He's professional about what he does, though."

"He's very level headed," Fisk acknowledged.

That reminded me of Miss. Mary Portman's shared name, and I asked, "Was the second victim related to him?"

Belmont hesitated a moment before he shook his head. "Not by blood. If I remember my gossip, she was already ten or eleven years old when her mother married into the family, but her step brother is the sheriff's cousin."

"Mayhap she was killed to try and discourage the sheriff from looking deeper." No doubt he had more family in the area. The cousin by blood, for one.

"It's a possible motive," Fisk agreed. "But unless her brother dies too, I wouldn't waste too much time looking into it. It's just as likely, if not more so, to give Portman extra motivation to hunt the killer down. Now if whoever killed her had left a note warning that her brother would be next…" Fisk trailed off, a comical look of disappointment coming over him as he realized what had happened, and he shot me a dirty look again for getting him caught up in thinking of the case. Without another word on the murders, he turned and started praising Aaron's culinary skills.

Fisk went on like that for the rest of dinner. Aaron could very simply nod yes or no, and had a few basic gestures beyond that which Fisk had learned. The conversed mostly by Fisk asking questions, and Aaron trying to answer them with as basically as possible. Patrons began to trickle in as the two got into their conversation, and Belmont had to leave us to go see to them. Aaron waved him off. The man had made more than a few attempts to answer questions for his hired help, and Aaron seemed not to like depending on a translator.

I finished my meal while the two 'talked' free of intrusions, and when I saw Belmont go into the kitchen to fetch food for another customer, I followed. The man had been so kind and accepting so far, I was unconcerned with the possibility that I might not be welcome behind the counter.

I dared not say this in Fisk or Aaron's presence. 'Twould be embarrassing to say it near Aaron, and I had no desire to be kicked by Fisk again.

"He's a talented boy," I said, gesturing in Aaron's direction so Belmont would know what I meant.

"He is. I could hardly run this place without him, though I bet your he'd do fine if I left. He's practically taken over all my work."

"His parents must be overjoyed to see him working, despite his cripple."

Simple children were very rarely kept by their parents, and from the way Belmont's grin vanished I thought this might have been the case.

"They may have been."

I waited a moment longer to see if he might elaborate, but no more was said. I would have to mention it to Fisk later, along with… "I fear I may offend you by asking this, but… is it his only disability?"

"What?"

"I mean… clearly he's a strong and healthy young man, to be able to do all this work, but is his voice all that he's missing?"

"You want to know if he's stupid on top of dumb." I winced. I'd been trying as hard as I could not to put it so bluntly. "No. Sharp as nails, that one. He could get into a university if he cared to try. Well, maybe. At least they'd be happy to have him if he could pay. He could do better than settle for being the overworked and only employee of a small inn, but who am I to complain if he likes it here?"

So he wasn't simple. But then how did he have magic? I couldn't believe there would be another person out there as deranged as Ceciel, and I knew of no way for an intelligent person to possess a power like my own without having been subjected to her mad experiments.

I didn't have much time to think of it. I caught the soft glow that surrounded Aaron moving in the corner of my eye and looked over as stepped into the kitchen, no doubt he was getting food for the four men Fisk was now dealing cards too.

I rarely worried anymore about my squire trying to use less than legal means to get money, but not everyone agreed that his card tricks weren't cheating. And once or twice I had seen him sharp cards for no reason other than to make a fool out of someone at a bar. Fisk may have been good with a knife, but we were already on the sheriff's list of suspects, and pulling a knife in a brawl never looked good.

I excused myself to go keep an eye on him, and Belmont followed. Thankfully, Fisk was only performing his usual trick, taking bets on whether or not he could guess people's cards rather than truly cheating them of their money. 'Twas one of his faster and more honest ways of making quick coin, but it did worry me when Belmont put money down.

'Tis a good thing he was such a good natured fellow, for if we had been kicked out for his losing the bet, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from giving Fisk grief. However low our funds were, I would have rather agreed to work for our room than seek board in an inn that might not be as accepting of a man like me.


	7. Chapter 7

_Fisk_

When we came down to breakfast the next morning Belmont informed me, for what must have been the eighth time, that he _would_ figure out how I'd managed to guess the right cards next time, and I once again reminded him that I wouldn't be playing cards tonight. I'd earned enough to pay for our room and meals for the next few days–even without accounting for the number of meals we seemed not to need to pay for, and if I couldn't travel to find new marks, then I would have to wait for them to come to me, meaning I wouldn't take my cards back out until Belmont had a fresh set of patrons. I quite literally couldn't afford to let the trick get old while we still needed to pay for a room.

Aaron had cooked again, thought this time we paid for the meal. Michael seemed to have come to the conclusion the previous night that Aaron was, in fact, of at least average intelligence, and was now watching him intently. It clearly made Aaron nervous, and he fumbled with people's plates more than once. After letting it go on a few minutes I kicked Michael under the table and hissed, "Stop scaring him."

Michael's only response was to frown before focusing on his own food.

I knew I would regret it later, but Belmont seemed to be more attached to Aaron than was usual for a business owner and his workers, and I doubted we would find another inn willing to house an unredeemed man if Michael wore out Belmont's kindness harassing his favorite helper. From what I could tell the trail was already ice cold, and it would distract Michael from Aaron, so I resigned myself to exactly what I had hoped to avoid the past few days.

"Michael, today we should speak to the families employing Carter and Mary Portman. Maybe we can find some relation between the two of them."

The frown melted away almost instantly, replaced by an idiotic, triumphant grin. "'Tis too enticing to let the mystery go, isn't it?"

Not by a long shot, but between the two mysteries I didn't want Michael sticking his nose into, this seemed like the one where he might get himself into less trouble for the time being. "I don't recall the name of the woman Mary worked for, but we could ask for Cedric Goodman's address. The town at large may not trust us, but I'm sure Belmont will let us know."

Michael nodded and waved the man over who, in fact, did let us know. I didn't know if I was happy or not with how easily he handed the address over, though it was certainly annoying that he wished us good luck so enthusiastically.

Goodman's home was on the far side of town. Away from the mines, like all wealthy homes in Cranbor. Even if your money came from the mines, there was no reason to be so close to them if you could afford it. My understanding was that he ran a shipping business, and as the Cranbor mines had been his primary customer, he set up in town. Cranbor wasn't by any major rivers, let alone the ocean, and the coal was by no means easy to transport. For him to afford such a nice home meant he must have been a very resourceful businessman. Or a shady one. One who killed his own employee to protect his business secrets? But that left no explanation for why the sheriff's cousin had died.

The outside of his home impressed me. It was the sort of elaborate fair that a commoner might look as and think was little more than your average home, until you looked closely and noticed the hundreds of little details that made it far more beautiful than a house that had been plainly painted. Far more expensive too. I knocked on Goodman's front door expecting the man to be a ruthless climber.

I couldn't have been further off.

The man who opened the door had an incredibly slight build, and at first I mistook him for hired help. He looked between the two of us, confused. But I saw no signs of recognition, so he must not have known we were the main suspects in the murders, which would make it easier to get him to talk to us. I opened my mouth to introduce ourselves, but Michael beat me to it.

"Good morning, sir. We were hoping that me might be able to speak with Master Goodman about the poor boy who was killed while working here."

Tact was Michael's specialty.

The man, to his credit, didn't close the door on us, but he didn't respond either, and Michael went on.

"My friend and I would like to help bring justice to this man, if you would be willing to assist us. I'm a knight errant, you see, and this is my squire, Fisk."

I wondered if Michael did realized he had forgotten his own name, or if he left it out on purpose to avoid connecting himself with the rumors going around town.

Most often, when they learned of Michael's choice of career, people laughed. Or regarded him as though he was insane. This man gaped, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tried to form a sensible response to that senseless claim. I thought me might stand in the doorway doing his best impression of a fish for hours, but a woman came up and smacked him on the back of the head.

"Respond you twit."

From how she dressed I had no doubt this was Goodman's wife, and she held herself with the confidence of someone who always got what she wanted. I could only hope she didn't want us gone.

The man stuttered, then gave us a quick bow. "Sorry, sirs. I'm Master Goodman. You… you want to talk about Harold? Come right in."

Mistress Goodman, who must not have heard Michael's first proclamation, snorted. "The sheriff already came by asking about him, and Cedric told him all we knew. What's your angle?"

My whole perspective of the two shifted, and I now thought I understood how the Goodmans had seen such success. A timid man like Master Goodman would look like an easy mark for merchant, be he unscrupulous or not. It wouldn't be until they sat down to work out a deal that Mistress Goodman would take over the negotiations, for I now realized that this harsh woman was the true head of their business.

"We've spoken with the sheriff as well," I told her. "I don't doubt that he did his best, but my friend and I have had some experience in cases like this one, and we thought we might be able to pick up some details he had missed. Perhaps find a link between your stable boy and the woman who was killed the day after."

The woman snorted. "We never heard her name before she died."

"But we've heard a bit about her business," I started, and the lady finished for me before Michael could expose my lie.

"So if that boy had been involved in any of the same business, then it would provide some shared trait between the murders. Very well. The sheriff hasn't been back since that woman was killed, so you might as well ask." She patted her husband's shoulder. "Keep them entertained, dear. I'll be finishing up… tidying the office."

She had paperwork to attend to. But I was relieved to see we would be dealing with only her husband. I preferred asking questions to answering them, and something told me that attempting to interview her would end with her prying every bit of personal information she could out of me and Michael.

Goodman waited until his wife had gone upstairs before talking. "I'd be…" He paused there, and took a deep breath before continuing more confidently, which still wasn't enough to make him sound difficult to walk all over. "I would be glad to help you. Harold was a sweet boy. If there's anything more I can do to bring his killer to justice… he could have made it home safely if I'd only insisted he could pick his work back up in the morning."

"'Tis not your fault," Michael assured him. "You had no way of knowing what would happen."

"And if he was being targeted, it wouldn't have mattered where he was," I added. "Besides, no one assumes they should let people off work early on a regular basis."

Michael's words seemed to be a much greater comfort to the man, which wasn't uncommon. Reasoning was my specialty. Reasoning and fast talking. But when it came to emotional appeals, Michael always seemed to have a better effect on a person. The two of us, after all, had said more or less the same thing.

"Why don't you two come in?" Goodman stepped back from his doorway to reveal an impressive mess for an upscale home. "We just had tea. It's a little cold now, but I can fetch it for you, if you'd like."

"Are your servants unable to brew anymore?" I asked. I'd no doubt that he could easily afford to, but I was more interested in the implication that he was the one handling the tea.

"Well, they're not here," Goodman confessed, confirming my suspicions. That would explain the clutter building up around his house, too. "I've had them stay home since we lost Harold. He worked closer to the mines, which is where we get our shipments, but if he was killed because he worked for me, then I don't want to risk forcing any of my workers out of their homes until this has been settled."

No doubt his wife kept the workers needed for their business on the job, but one could go a day or two without someone to clean or cook for you.

"Do you think that's why Harold was attacked? Because he worked for you?" Michael asked.

"I don't know why anyone would have a personal grudge against him. Hold on."

Goodman disappeared into another room, and I made use of his absence to seat myself in a cushioned chair in the entryway. A minute later he came out with two mugs of cold tea. Having already seemed presumptuous in asking about fresh cuts, I took one to avoid coming off as ungrateful.

"Harold didn't make enemies?" Michael verified before taking a sip from his mug. Judging from his grimace the tea had grown too bitter, but he still murmured a half-hearted thanks for it.

"He didn't. I don't think he made many friends either. I hired him about six months ago, and he kept to himself in that time. He was a kind boy, but he seemed reluctant to open up to others."

"Then do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?" Michael prodded.

"Not that I know of, but it's possible. My wife and I, people don't like dealing with us much, though most of our business is done out of town and we always make fair deals with the miners. It doesn't do to have enemies in your own town. The only man we regularly work with here is the man who owns the mines, and he's a good friend of ours." Worthington, the man who framed my brother-in-marriage of bribery, had been a good friend too, but I held my tongue. "It could just as easily have been a disgruntled employee, or one of the poorer men from town. The last murder in Cranbor was a burglar who was seen sneaking out of a house he had robbed, and hit the would-be witness too hard over the head while trying to get away." He paused. "Though I suppose it's unlikely that the same thing would happen twice in a single week. Especially when it's been so long since anyone died."

Especially when it had been so long since there was _any_ major crime. Cranbor had to have it's share of poor, but to think that someone would commit murder for money when, supposedly, there hadn't been so much as a burglary in years was hard for me to believe. I still went along with what Goodman said, if only because it might have had some insight into the town that we lacked as strangers passing through.

"The other victim worked in a wealthy family too, so it could be _something_ to do with that. I would hope not, though. If the only thing we can discern about our killer is that they don't like the wealthy, then that doesn't narrow down our suspects much." I couldn't even begin to count the number of people I knew who had automatically disliked those with too much money. Even Jack, who had always been happy to see someone with a heavy coin purse, expected them to be stupid more than he did pleasant. "I don't suppose you know the other—"

"I never met Jeffery Wilson, nor his wife Delilah, so if you think we might have a common enemy going after our employees, we don't," Goodman told us in a sort of practiced manner that told us that even if the sheriff hadn't come back to question him again, his neighbors had. "And I don't think Harold knew the woman who was killed. He didn't talk to the other servants any more than he had to, and as far as I know he went straight home after work. He was still living with his family, too, although I remember hearing once that he was looking for a house of his own."

Without knowing what sort of life Mary Portman led, I didn't know what else to ask about Harold. We hadn't exactly gone at this from the fresh angle I'd proposed. I tried to sound professional, asking what Goodman knew about Harold's daily to day life and, more importantly, what he had done the day he died, but it didn't get me anywhere. Harold didn't seem to be someone who had much of a life outside of work, and hadn't acted any different in the last day of his life. All that told me was that he likely hadn't expected to die. Or at least hid his fear. When I ran out of ideas for what to ask I thanked him for his time and said, "One last thing. Would you by any chance know the address to Mistress Wilson or Harold's homes?"

He had Harold's on record, and got Miss. Wilson's from his wife.

Michael and I didn't discuss who to see next. We both agreed without needing to say it aloud that it would be easier to talk to the woman who lost an employee than the woman who lost a son. Wilson's house was also much closer to Goodman's than the Carter home was. A bit closer to the mines than his home, and the house itself was smaller, but still large enough to warrant servants. And judging by the gardener in the side yard, the master of this household wasn't afraid that her other servants might be targeted.

I thought it might be easier to call out to the gardener, but Michael strode up to the door and knocked, so we waited for someone to open it. The young lady who opened the door recoiled when she saw him, clearly someone who had heard the rumors and recognized the man they described, and shrank back as Michael explained he was a knight errant in search of justice for the late Mary Portman. Whem the girl closed to door before going to get her employer, I expected her to lock it, as well as any other entrances into the house.

Instead, the door opened a minute later, revealing a woman who looked familiar in two ways. The first was that she had the same shrewish demeanor as Goodman's wife. The second was that this woman was the same on we had seen arguing with the deputy at the sheriff's office.


	8. Chapter 8

_Michael_

Miss Wilson had already refused to speak with me once, and I had the sense to realize she'd turn us down again if I came off as crazy. It may already be too late, if her maid had mentioned that I called myself a knight, but I held my tongue and gave her on reason to shut the door and Fisk no reason to hurriedly talk over me. My efforts were for naught. She tried to close the door on us anyway.

Fisk stepped forward, sticking his foot in the doorway and wincing when she tried to shut the door a second time.

"We only want a few minutes of your time," he told her before she could make a third attempt. "All we want is to ask a few questions and then we'll go. You saw the man who killed your servant and from what we've heard his description doesn't match us at all."

She bristled and glared at Fist for what felt to me like a whole hour, though 'twould be impossible that it went on that long, then she turned her frosty gaze to me.

"Show me your wrists."

"I'm unredeemed." 'Twas easier to say it if she already wanted proof.

Her scowl, which I believed was the only expression she knew how to make, deepened. She then tried to shut the door a third time, which only succeeded in making Fisk yelp.

"Delilah isn't here right now."

"Then who under the two moons are _you_?" Fisk demanded, indignation flowing freely in his voice.

"I'm…" The lady paused. For a long enough time that it became obvious she was looking for a believable name to give as a lie, she was silent, then said, "Mar… Marissa." Had she started to say Mary? Even I could do better than to change an alias in the middle of giving one. Most likely. At least I knew it was a terrible idea.

"Marissa?"

"Yes. Marissa… Marissa Smith."

Fisk looked back at me, amused. Her skills must have been either gratingly obnoxious or amusingly sad for a former conman like him. If I recalled correctly, when I first saw Fisk while he was on trial, his true name was one of several that he had gone by when conning people.

But even when he got his expression under control, he still looked at me. Did he want me to handle this?

"Miss Marissa, if the lady is out, then we'd like to speak with you." It felt wrong to pretend I had believed her lie, but if it might ease her worry about us then so be it. "If you're a servant here—" she nodded "—then mayhap you would know poor Mary better than your employer."

The scowl deepened to the point that it was frightening. "No."

"But surely you—"

She kicked Fisk's foot out of the way and shut the door.

I stood there, unsure whether I should laugh or not while Fisk cursed the woman. I would have liked to call her it suspicious that she wouldn't talk to us, but I was unredeemed and knew how that unnerved people.

"It seems like she won't be much help," I told Fisk. "It might be best to wait and see if anyone else in town has heard her story. If she took it to the sheriff so eagerly then it shouldn't take long to spread."

Fisk, who had likely bruised his foot in the effort to talk to her directly, looked quite put off by the idea and opened his mouth to complain, but stopped and looked past me.

"Yes?" He asked.

I turned to see who he was speaking too, and noticed that the young lady who had been tending to Miss Wilson's garden had stopped her work to stand by us.

"Um…" She looked to my wrists, which were covered, but no doubt she had heard me mention my status.

"You should get back to work," I told her as gently as I could. "Your mistress will be upset if she sees you talking to us."

"But… ah…" the girl fumbled with the gardening shovel in her hand a moment before working up the nerve to speak. "Well, you see… Mary was a friend of mine. She lived next door before her mother remarried and… um… I heard the unredeemed man staying at The Chestnut was named Michael. Is your name _really_ Michael?"

A strange question. And one that mattered far less than what this girl who knew the victim quite well might know, but she seemed nervous and I didn't want to appear rude by telling her so. I nodded, and as I did Fisk said, "Perhaps _you_ could tell us something about her."

The girl nodded as well, eyeing me with wary curiosity. "Don't mind Miss Wilson. When her husband died last spring it was so sudden that everyone questioned her, and she's not liked being on the receiving end of interrogations since. I had already gone home when Mary… when she died, but Miss Wilson told everyone over and over that she saw a huge man go into the shed with Mary. Right where I keep my tools. I was the one who found her." The girls eyes flicked down to her feet. "She was right there on the floor. At first I thought I shouldn't have told Miss Wilson to hire her… she wanted to save up to move out by the ocean, and we needed a new cook. But then when I heard about the man who followed her into the shed, I thought it must have been one of those miner."

"If he was a huge as we've heard, it's likely," Fisk said. "You build up muscle working a job like that." Having done some work in mines myself, I was aware of the labor involved.

"I guess. But there was one who Mary spent a lot of time with. His name was Michael, actually. I think he was courting her, but she was strange about it and I never got a straight answer from her. I heard Lis—ah… the maid say that he came by a few weeks ago and asked for her hand in marriage, but when I asked her a few days later she was still looking to move. He seemed to like her well enough, but from what I heard he kept rough company. I thought perhaps she turned him down so she wouldn't be tied to this town, and maybe one of his friends had reacted to it by… strangling…" She choked over the next few words, and became interested in her shovel again.

"Did you tell the sheriff?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Not any of that. I was still stunned when he came by. She was right there on the floor. Right in front of the shelf where I left the seeds I had promised to get down that day. I told him how I found her, but it wasn't until I heard Miss Wilson's testimony that I got to thinking…"

"'Twould be best if he knew. We can't bring Mary back, but we'll do what we can to help bring her justice."

The girl nodded. "Thank you."

"One last thing," Fisk told her. "Do you know if Mary ever spent time with someone named Harold Carter?"

"The stable boy?" The girl shook her head. "I only ever heard her say his name when I asked if she had heard about his death."

-o-

"So we still have no link between the two. We may as well have stayed at the inn, for all we accomplished today."

I grinned, for Fisk's complaints were a fixture of our adventures that I had come to appreciate. If only for their familiarity.

"We know 'twas likely a miner who did in Mary. Mayhap one Delilah let in. I find it strange that she would see a man she didn't know enter a shed on her property and not do anything about it."

"Then why mention she saw him at all?" Fisk pointed out. "Besides, if the gardener was the one who found the body, Delilah might not use the shed much. If she sees two lovers go in there, then any mess they might make isn't her problem."

The implication made me blush, but I pressed on. "She could be lying. For a woman who had a servant murdered on her property and lost her husband less than a year ago, she hardly seemed upset. She was questioned on her husband's death too, wasn't she? Mayhap she killed him and Mary had evidence to prove it. She just had to wait until there was something to lessen suspicion on her: like me."

"And someone else who knew you were here the first night went after Harold, then?" Fisk shot back. "We still have no motive to him. Besides, you really think that woman could convincingly lie about whether or not she killed someone? She could hardly keep her fake name straight, once she finally managed to put it together. In any case, she seemed pretty upset to me."

As the one whose foot she had tried her hardest to break, he would know.

"'Tis still possible."

"Yes, but I find it more likely that it was someone the boyfriend knew. This other Michael."

Fisk came to a halt so abruptly that I almost walked into him.

"Fisk?"

"That makes sense, actually."

"Fisk, what makes sense?"

"The other Michael. He might have a habit of getting into fights."

"What? Fisk, all we know is his name."

"Well, that's enough," Fisk told me. "I saw papers in Portman's office for a Michael who had attacked someone unprovoked, which you certainly didn't do. I was a bit preoccupied with trying to convince him that you weren't Harold's killer at the time, but since your name was there and he suspected you of one crime, I thought he might have pinned you for another as well. I suppose he might have, but I doubt it. He was fair enough with you. If this other Michael made friends with the sort who are more likely to get violent, it could easily be a report on his misdemeanor that I saw. And if he and his friends are impulsively violent, we might have a suspect for Mary after all. Although why Harold…" He froze again, looking horrified.

"Fisk? Fisk, what is it this time?"

"Curse it," Fisk muttered. "And here I was hoping we'd run into a dead end."


	9. Chapter 9

_Fisk_

It was all good and fine that we had a suspect, but we didn't have enough evidence to go to the sheriff, and Belmont, the only man in town who knew we were the main suspects in an open murder and happily gave us addresses to families of victims anyway, didn't know the location of Mary's Michael or her cousin—although he could tell us where Harold lived, which would have been good to know had we not already gotten that information from someone else. In short, we got the dead end I wanted after all.

It took three days for Michael to admit that we had no more leads we could follow where Mary was concerned, and that unless anything promising turned up with Harold, then it would be best not to disturb his mother for at least a few days. That isn't to say that he gave up, but rather that he wasn't thinking of the murders around the clock.

Unfortunately, the less focus Michael gave the murders, the more he devoted to Aaron. After the second fruitless day of trying to find the other Michael, I had to teach him how to watch people without being noticed. He was staring so openly at the boy that I felt something had to be done about it.

"Michael, if it really bothers you that much, _ask_ him."

"Of course it bothers me. How could it not? Besides, you didn't want me to ask him, right?"

I'd never objected to him asking Aaron. I just didn't want him to give the boy a hard time. Where Michael got the idea that I felt the subject of magic was supposed to be completely off limits was beyond me, although 'wishful thinking' would be my first guess.

When I told Michael as much we began to argue over how clear I needed to be. Well, he argued over that. I was arguing that I shouldn't have to tell him in the first place. It seemed like common sense to me.

We argued the whole way downstairs, and likely would have continued to argue all through breakfast, had Sheriff Portman not been waiting for us in the lobby with several deputies in tow.

The Chestnut, at that point in time, had two other patrons, a couple that had eloped and was putting off returning home. The only other residents were Belmont and, possibly, Aaron. I'd certainly never seen him leave the premise. And the two of them, standing behind the counter of the inn's small bar, seemed more curious than threatened, so there was no fooling myself into thinking that he was here for anyone but us. Though with this man, that _may_ not have been a bad thing. "Is something the matter?" I asked before Michael could.

He narrowed his eyes at us. Definitely a bad sign. "Where were the two of you last night?"

"Right here," Michael told him. "What happened?"

His innocent confusion was on full display and, being Michael, he made no effort to play it up. I may have cursed him more than once for his inability to hide guilt, but it was moments like this that I envied his ability to look innocent while I tried to hide how nervous I was.

"You know what happened, you bastard! Don't play dumb!" one of the deputies hissed. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was the same one who spoke out of line the last time Michael had been arrested.

Portman held a hand up to silence his man, then addressed us. "There was another murder last night, An older man, this time. Did you hear anything about it?"

"No, sir." I told him while Michael shook his head.

"We just came down for the first time this morning," Michael told him. Concern was creeping into his features now. About time.

"Michael Sevenson," a hint of a smile slipped across Portman's face as he said the name, curse him, "I hereby place you under arrest. Again. We had a witness name you as the culprit."

"Everyone's naming him as the culprit," I argued, again, mostly concerned with speaking before Michael could. I also might have been stalling while I looked for a way to get Michael out of this one. An already suspect unredeemed man's word against that of someone who saw a killing happen? He would hang for sure. At least if I couldn't discredit the accusation. "Are you sure this person even witnessed the crime? Who was it? A relative of one of the previous victims?"

It was obvious that they couldn't name the witnesses, so I didn't take offense when Portman didn't tell me.

"We don't know of any relation between our witness and the last two victims, but he was close friends with the man who was just reported dead. We've taken the two… they're known to be together often, so I would have found is suspicious if this man _hadn't_ been at the scene." Behind Portman, one of his men murmured about how the man likely hid when it happened, in a tone carrying enough disgust to make me think our latest witness was more than capable of fighting. And it didn't get past me that Portman had changed his validation of their relationship. "He named you, Master Sevenson. He could describe you well enough too." As he said this he trace a finger across his chin, mimicking the line of a scar of Michael's.

Michael scowled, likely remembering the last time someone had tried to frame him using the scar as an identifier. That time had only been arson, which I say 'only' to because no one died in that particular fire. "We were here all night," he insisted.

"And I would be shocked if most of the town couldn't describe Michael whether they saw him or not, the way rumors are flying," I added for good measure. "Besides, you know Michael had nothing to do with Mary Portman. You were holding her at the time. Whether or not this started with an unredeemed man coming to town, you're clearly dealing with a local killer." Hoping he might not consider the possibility of two murderers, I added, "If Michael had nothing to do with that woman, why would you suspect Michael of this latest killing?"

He didn't fall for it. "Michael has no alibi."

Aaron's hand shot up.

"We were here all night," Michael repeated less than confidently.

"Can anyone testify for you?" Portman asked. From the look on the face of the other officers, they doubted it, but Portman almost sounded hopeful. I wondered what Michael had done when interrogated on the first murder.

But no one spoke up, and Portman sighed and began to explain, as if we were simple, how he couldn't just take our word for it that Michael was innocent.

He made it almost all the way through his speech before someone pointed out Aaron, whose waiving had become increasingly frantic the closer Portman had got to his conclusion.

"What is it?" Portman demanded.

Aaron gestured to his throat, his way of explaining that he couldn't speak, then tugged on Belmont's shirt and began flashing through a series of gestures. Portman understood what the first gesture had meant, or else already knew about Aaron's disability, since he waited patiently for Aaron to finish. Somewhere in Aaron's frantic hand movements, I caught his gesture for sweeping, but the rest was lost on me.

When he finished Belmont cleared his throat and relayed the message. "He says Master Sevenson helped him clean up after we closed last night, and was sitting by the bar up until then. I spotted him earlier myself, but didn't stay up particularly late," Belmont told the sheriff. "We close our doors at midnight, and Aaron doesn't finish cleaning until after that. I don't suppose the murder happened before then?"

"Midnight sounds about right," one of the men muttered.

Aaron made a sweeping gesture, then a motion resembling the ticking hands on a clock. Those two I both recognized, but lacked the practice to put them together as swiftly as Belmont did. "He says cleaning takes time."

This time it was Portman who looked put off while two of his men chuckled. "Very well." He nodded to Aaron, who smiled back with a grin so innocent that you might expect to see if from a simple child. For a moment I was willing to believe that explained his magic after all, but I knew that wasn't the case. "If you hear anything, let us know," Portman told Belmont and Aaron. He glanced at Michael and almost said something else, but decided against it an left.

For a painfully long time, no one said anything. Then Belmont burst into laughter. The sudden, loud burst of mirth made me jump.

"Lucky break on your part, eh lad?"

Michael nodded, anxiety still plain on his face, and said again, "We were here all night." I was beginning to worry that Portman might have spooked him.

"Well, back to business. I believe someone needs to finish preparing breakfast, and I've got a few newly weds to make sure weren't unsettled by him coming in like that. I'll leave you two to yourselves," Belmont told us, shooing Aaron into the kitchen as he spoke.

I waited until he had gone upstairs and out of earshot before speaking to Michael. "I'm surprised you didn't argue when Aaron lied for you. I figured you'd still count it even if he wasn't speaking."

"I would consider it to be a lie," Michael confirmed. "Oh, don't roll your eyes. I have enough sense not to be honest when it will get me hung, Fisk. I let him tell the sheriff I helped him last night because I _did_ help him."

"After midnight?" It took me a moment to figure out why. "Michael!"

"I didn't mean to… well… I didn't mean to be seen," Michael defended. "I thought mayhap I could catch him using his powers if he thought no one was around, but he spotted me and though I couldn't understand his gestures, I thought he might have been asking if I wanted to help. He was working all alone. 'Twould have been rude to turn him down."

"Michael, if you see him glow, what do you think are the odds that he sees you the same?" I argued, which I shouldn't have had to of, and the look of embarrassed realization told me the thought ha occurred to Michael before. But not its implications? I wouldn't put it past him to overlook a detail like that. "You _must_ stand out to him."

Michael nodded and promised, "I'll be more careful watching him in the future."

I groaned and took a seat at a nearby table, feeling that this discussion would quickly get exhausting. "Leave him alone in the future."

"'Twas not a bad thing, Fisk." Michael followed my example and took a seat. "His work was finished faster with both of us handling it, and the sheriff trusted his word that I had been here, which Aaron could not have honestly assured the man of had I stayed in our room. And if I were to catch him at… at anything unnatural, then 'twould be a perfect opportunity to ask him about it."

I couldn't argue that. I hated not being able to argue that. Curse him, he was right. And he hadn't even considered that Belmont might give us another discount for the assistance. As the one who carried our money, it had certainly crossed _my_ mind. "Just be careful in the future. Assuming he can tell you have magic too, there's probably a good reason he's still being discrete about it. If he wanted to discuss the subject, there's no reason he wouldn't have already approached us about it."

"'Tis only an attempt to discover more about what Ceciel changed in me," Michael defended. "If another man can use magic without losing his mind, mayhap 'tis not so dangerous a power, if nothing else."

And if Michael could be assured of that, then it would settle a great deal of discomfort he had regarding his own magic. "Just don't get us in any more trouble."

With Michael, there wasn't a single request less likely to be answered. His laugh was an innocent one, but it left me with a certain sense of doom all the same.


	10. Chapter 10

_Michael_

Fisk was less than pleased with me having kept an eye on Aaron, and there was nothing I could say to change that, so I wasn't going to try. He may have been able to turn a blind eye to the fact that there was someone else with magic, but I wasn't. Instead of arguing, I tried the same tactic he had used to distract me from Aaron.

"Mayhap we could pay a visit to Harold's mother today. Or ask about the new victim. If there's been another 'tis unlikely that this will die down soon enough for us to be allowed leave."

For a moment I thought he might say yes, but after visibly struggling with the idea he shook his head. "It's too soon. The sheriff only came to see us ten minutes ago. Given them time to stop worrying about what we're up to first, or it might look suspicious."

Since I had an alibi for, thank the gods for that, I didn't see what the trouble was. Of the three deaths, I could only be help suspect for one, no matter what this supposed witness had said. And having as much experience I did with sheriffs by this time I thought myself a fair judge of the situation, but Fisk was better at thinking of crimes and motivations, and in truth I would have a hard time investigating the murders without him. If he said to wait than I had little choice but to do so until he was ready.

So I turned my attention back to Aaron.

Not to spy on him, as Fisk warned me when I headed for the kitchen, but to thank him. He was setting the breakfast he had prepared onto plates when I came in and, because he looked like he was in a hurry to get the meals out and start his next task, I offered to help before talking to him. He nodded gratefully and we had breakfast put out for the couple that was coming downstairs and a meal set aside for Fisk and myself before he was ready to hear me out, and he made me wait to speak while he led me to a room behind the kitchen that might have once been a large pantry, but was now a sparsely decorated bedroom with no more furnishing that were absolutely necessary. Once I was done wondering why an employee was provided such a room at the inn where he worked, I remembered to speak.

"I wanted to thank you for speaking up on my… ah… for testifying for me," I said. Aaron smiled at me and nodded, letting the slip of my tongue slide, so I carried on. "I'd have been in trouble if you hadn't helped."

Aaron nodded and made several gestures, more slowly than he had when Belmont was there to translate. I hadn't made the same effort as Fisk to learn his signals, and after several attempts at telling me something he threw his hands up in defeat and left, returning a minute later with Fisk in tow.

When he repeated the gestures again, Fisk told me, "He says he's thankful for your help with the inn. You know more about serving than he would have expected of a nobleman."

"'Tis nothing," I assured him. "Knight errantry has given me a wide variety of skills."

He laughed, or I think he did, for while he still made no sound, his shoulders bobbed with laughed. I was pleased with the simple conversation until he calmed himself, at which point he pointed to the two of us, made a gesture I didn't know, than drew his finger across his throat, a symbol for slashing ones throat open so commonplace that I didn't need to be told what it stood for.

I went stiff, wondering for a moment if we had been threatened, but before I could ask what we had done to offend him, Fisk asked, "You want something done about the murderers?"

Aaron held up a finger.

"You want us to wait… no… The first murder?"

Aaron nodded, and made several other gestures, one of which he had to explain to Fisk through even more gestures. Conversing must have given the boy a fair workout.

"He was a friend of yours?"

Aaron nodded.

"We were told he had no friends at the time he died," I thought aloud.

Aaron nodded again.

"So you two were friends some time ago, but something came between the two of you," Fisk concluded.

This time Aaron lifted his hands to elaborate, but gave up before he started and nodded again. It must have required too many gestures Fisk didn't know.

Despite suspecting he couldn't tell us without pen and paper, I couldn't help but ask, "What did you two fight over."

Aaron pointed to his throat, then to Fisk while making a face that clearly meant to say 'stupid.' Fisk seemed to get that it was a joke and laughed, and it would have been unfair if it weren't a joke, for I was beginning to see that the gestures were their own language. No one I'd ever heard of could learn a language in less than a week. Much less one that you used your hands to speak in, and your eyes to listen to.

The glow around his skin was still there, pricking at the back of my neck with the unease that magic always did, but I couldn't help but grin at Aaon. He seemed nice enough.

"Then what is it you want done about Harold?" I asked him, though I had my suspicions.

He made the knife gesture again, and a pleading motion, among others. And Fisk, instead of translating, groaned.

"What is it," I asked, now nearly confident as to what it was.

"We can't," Fisk insisted. "The sheiff is still wary of us, and Michael—"

"Does he want us to find Harold's killer?"

Aaron nodded, eyes glowing brighter than his magic in response to the enthusiasm in my own voice. I already wanted whoever had strangled that poor boy brought to justice. Now we had a plea that would push Fisk more towards stopping the murderer as well.

Mayhap 'twas because Aaron had let himself become a part of our quest to find the murderer that Fisk asked his next question.

"Aaron, what do you know about magic?"

Light fled Aaron's widening eyes, replaced with fear and unease. For some time, much too long a time, he said nothing, and made no movements. Then he turned his hands up and shrugged.

He was lying. You didn't need to see he was full of magic to tell as much.

"You don't know anything," Fisk pushed.

Aaron bit his lip and shook his head. It seemed to me that if Fisk could control both his voice and his mannerisms when telling a lie than a person who had no voice and communicated entirely through the motions of their body ought to realize when their actions gave them away, but mayhap a decent boy like him had so little practice with lying that this information had never been of use to him. All the more to say for his character.

"I see then." Fisk's smile was casual and apologetic, and his posture comfortably plain. Had I not told him that Aaron had magic, I might have thought he believed the lie. "Thank you anyway."

-x-

**STA: **Sorry for the delay in getting the rewrite up. (Ugh. I haven't even made it to the part where I'm writing chapters from scratch and I already slowed down.) I signed up for some summer classes and things got hectic towards the end. I'm finally on break now, so things should pick back up.


	11. Chapter 11

_Fisk_

Michael's face is one of the more open that I've seen, which often made for some good entertainment. It was, I'll admit, amusing to watch him try to figure out if he should prioritize talking to me about how Aaron was lying, or convincing me to look into the latest murder. Whoever was behind them, the odds that Michael might hang should they kill again had jumped considerably with that latest accusation, and my interest in stopping them first was now genuine. We might be able to sneak out of town, but even if we got the horses out with us, Chant couldn't outrun a messenger sent to the surrounding towns warning the law there to look for us. And with our current funds we couldn't gather enough supplies ahead of time to skip passing through towns until we were a safe distance from Cranbor. (Not to mention, gathering supplies tends to tip people off to your plans to flee.)

That being said, the suspicion that last witness had put on Michael made me anxious, alibi or no, so I had him wait at the inn while I walked to the sheriff's and asked about the latest murder in the hopes that I might gage how much trouble Michael might be in this time. No one was openly hostile to me, which was a good sign, but I didn't have much luck when I tried asking for more information.

"We can't tell you anything," an officer explained. "Portman said he doesn't want anyone who could potentially be involved in the crimes knowing what information we do or don't have."

Which was perfectly sensible, but I hadn't come to ask what evidence they had gathered. I already knew we would need to find it again ourselves. "I don't need to details. I just want to know who the victim was." It seemed like a reasonable request to me.

"I can't give you his name, sir," the man insisted.

"Why not? Is there some way I can cause him more harm if I know his name?" I demanded. "I know you know that, and if I _was_ involved then I would know that too, so there's no reason to withhold it."

For a moment it looked like he might tell me, but he shook his head. "His family is really upset right now, and if that other miner heard I gave information to the suspect's companion we'd have to deal with him too."

A miner? There was no link there to Harold, but he may have been a friend of Mary's. "Are you sure you can't tell me anything? Not even his name?"

"I'm certain."

And just to emphasize that the conversation was over, the officer grabbed a paper from his desk and began to read it much more intently than was warranted for… I took a peek… a letter from some civilian complaining that his neighbor's dog barked too loudly at night.

No use arguing endlessly with people who could send Michael to the noose. Technically, they didn't even need to suspect him of something, although the only time we encountered men who were willing to kill Michael for nothing, they were just as ready to run a sword through me.

I bid the man farewell as politely as I could and went to wait outside. If they wanted to know what was going on I could pretend I was waiting for Portman to return from wherever I couldn't learn he'd gone off to.

I had to move twice, shifting to more crowded spaces where I would be harder to notice from the windows of the sheriff's department, and might look more like I was casually waiting. That it made it easier to hear gossip was a bonus.

At noon I had to find something to eat. I'd taken out money in case I encountered someone who I might need to bribe for information, but I could hardly try that on anyone under Portman. Most men can be bought, but those who serve the law tend to be out of mine and Michael's price range, and there was no one else at the time worth bribing. I used some of the coin instead to buy myself a meal, and ate it with the knowledge that Belmont would gladly let Michael eat in exchange for helping around the inn for a few hours. If he had passed the time since I left him helping Aaron, he might have already earned his meal. Whether he had or hadn't I wasn't sure I hope for. More insight into the changes Ceciel had caused in Michael would be good, but then I still didn't want him harassing Aaron.

By the time I was done with lunch I had managed to catch the name of the victim from several miners who had come off their shift and ate at the table next to mine. Drew Potter. Thankfully, for once, we were in a town where Potter was not the most common name out there, so I decided to go back to the inn to check in on Michael and ask Belmont if he know the man.

This may have been a mistake. I arrived to find Michael acting perfectly responsibly, which I would have assumed automatically in anyone else, but in Michael it made me nervous. And he informed me that Belmont was out running errands.

"He'll likely be back soon," Michael guessed when he saw my disappointment. "Were you able to learn anything?"

"Just the man's name. He was a miner, so we might have better luck looking for a connection to Mary."

Michael nodded. "Would you like me to speak to Mistress Wilson again, or—"

"You go see Goodman," I told him. "Ask if he knew of any miners that Harold was friends with or see if you can find any servants there who might know." It I let it show that I didn't expect this to yield any results, Michael didn't notice. It was a simple enough task with no reason for any of the servants to lie—assuming none of them were the killer. Even considering that possibility, though, there was no reason to withhold that Harold had known miners. Unless the other servents were also friends with the miner who had accused Michael. But then… curse it. There was too much we didn't know.

"I'll speak to Wilson," I assured Michael. Goodman had been happy to tell an unredeemed man everything he knew. The maids working for Delilah would be more comfortable if he weren't around. I hoped that it wouldn't occur to him that that's why we split up.

-o-

My first attempt to speak with Delilah Wilson nearly broke my foot, so I expected the second to be painful as well. I knocked on the door with some trepidation, and was relieved and a little disappointed when she didn't open the door spitting fire.

"You're back." She glanced around. "Where's the unredeemed one?"

Before speaking, I readied my foot in case I might need to jam it in the door. "He didn't come with me today. I only have a few questions and if you want Mary's killer caught like I do then I should hope you'll answer them. If you plan to shut the door again—"

With a sigh, she opened the door wide and gestured that I follow her. "Come in. If this will make you stop bothering me, then let's get it over with."

My foot was still bruised from the last visit Michael and I had paid her, so I was a bit annoyed that she couldn't have come to that conclusion the first time.

Unlike with Goodman, Delilah stopped me in the foyer. "You want to know about the new one, don't you? That miner who was killed last night. The mines were Jeremy's business and I've turned it over to his brother since he died. I don't know who works there."

"Well, it's Mary who I thought might have had business with them, since she's the one who died," I pointed out. Then, to see how well this woman new the people she did still employ, I added, "I was told she was betrothed to one, so—"

"I would imagine nearly every girl in this town will marry a miner. You don't have many options left if you reject them." She looked into a room behind her, then back to me and said, "You'd be better off asking the gardener. She knew Mary before I hired her. But that girl had better still be alive when you leave."

How she planned to enforce that I didn't know, for with that she turned left me alone in the foyer. I didn't follow, assuming that she wouldn't have wanted me to, and was wondering if I should go outside and search the yard for the girl we spoke to before when the front door opened and that very girl poked her head in.

"Michael didn't come today?"

Before I could answer, Delilah's voice cut in. "If he does anything to frighten you, call me."

The girl looked off to her side and nodded, then looked back at me and repeated the question.

"He's speaking with someone else. Do you mind if I ask for a few more details about this other Michael?"

"Not at all." The girl opened the door up wider and let me out, and we stood in front of the house and talked again. "Miss Wilson was mad with me the other day for letting myself be distracted from my work, but I have permission this time. Have you gotten any further in catching the brute who killed Mary?"

I shook my head and poured as much regret into my voice as I could. "I'm afraid not. You said you thought one of the miners her Michael was friends with might have gone after her. Do you know who his friends were?"

The girl smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course. Mary spent a good deal of time with those men. Gambling, I think, which isn't quite proper but she was good with cards and I think it was often in her favor. I never met them myself, but she talked about them quite a bit. If this is about the latest man dead, I can tell you he was one of the ones she spoke more highly of. I plan to visit his wife when I get off this evening."

Some connection at last. Now if only Harold had been part of their group. "I heard there was a witness to his murder."

"I heard he named your friend," the girl said with the sort of easy giggle that told me she neither suspected my Michael, nor realized how much trouble it was to be accused of murder. Especially when you were outside the law. "But I also heard Aaron testified for him, and no one would ever doubt Aaron."

In my surprise, any questions about the case fled my mind. "You know him?"

"Most people do. He's the mute boy at that little inn, right? There was an incident some years ago at the mines. I must have been ten at the time, and he would have been younger. There was a cave in, you see, and they weren't able to rescue the miners. Both our fathers were caught when it happened, as well as Mary's, come to think of it, and Aaron kept sneaking into the mines to try and rescue his." Her eyes fell then, and she paused. At least one of their fathers hadn't made it. But when she remembered to continue, she made no mention of this. "He snuck in one night, and came back with the miners in tow. They said it was like magic how he helped to move the rocks aside without more falling. He was a bit of a town hero at the time, though he's tried to avoid attention since."

"But he's honest?" I asked.

"Of course he's honest. Oh, but you wanted to know about the murder. Well, if I knew who killed Potter I would let you know, but what I can tell you is that it was Michael who named your friend. Michael Godwin, that is. Not your friend…"

"Sevenson."

"Well, I can't imagine how Godwin would have seen Sevenson there," the girl said, showing me some sympathy for the names. "But he was probably drunk by that point. Mary always told me that her secret to winning cards was that she didn't drink."

"Smart girl." I didn't know what else to say about her, or even the exact tone to use. Remorseful? Appreciative?

The girl wasn't put off, so I must have conveyed a decent emotion. "If you want to know more about those men, I can tell you where Potter's widow lives. An officer came by earlier to make sure we were alright, and I asked him when I told him how I thought they might want to look into Mary's friends. Would you like to speak with them?"

"I would. Thank you."

"I have a question for you first," she warned me.

"Alright."

"I only know your friend Sevenson's name. All the rumors about you are just for 'the unredeemed man's friend,' and I don't want to hand out the address of a poor widow and a good friend's family to a man whose name I don't know."

"Fisk." She gazed blankly at me, so I sighed and forced the name up. "I'm Nonopherian Fisk."

She was polite enough not to pass judgment on it. "Silvia Wheeler. I'll write you directions."


	12. Chapter 12

_Michael_

Goodman wasn't certain that Harold had never known Drew Potter, though given the closeness of their shipping warehouse and the mines he said it might be possible that they at least knew one another. Still, he put emphasis on the idea that Harold had been without friends and even many casual acquaintances leading up to his death, putting an end to the theory that he and the latest victim might have known one another any more than in passing.

I returned the favor by convincing him that the miner's death meant his servants were likely not in danger and he could call them back. Our killer seemed not to be interested in any particular man's employees or even targeting anyone of a similar social status, which was unnerving to consider. If our killer took lives wantonly, could make a victim of anyone, then we might have to catch him in the act. With no pattern to the deaths, there was no trail to follow that I could see.

Goodman offered to let his other servants speak with me on the subject, but it seemed to me that Aaron would know just as well, for as much as Harold had apparently interact with his coworkers or, more accurately, failed to interact. Aaron would also be more willing to work with me than a stranger who only knew me as an unredeemed murder suspect.

In the end I learned nothing new that we could use, but had at least alleviated some of Goodman's fears, and so I left feeling that I had done some small good. Fisk was waiting for me when I returned to the inn, and he'd had better luck, having obtained the addresses of several family members of the victims. 'Twas late by then, and I would have been happy to wait until morning to pay them a visit, but Fisk argued that the killer had shown a tendency to strike at night, and felt that grieving families would make for as good an alibi, if not better, than Aaron had. 'Twas not the most comforting thought no matter which part of it I focused on.

In the spirit of finding a good alibi, Fisk decided we could see the sheriff's cousin first. He wouldn't tell me how he had gotten the address, only that it had been given at a steep price. I spent the walk to Richard Portman's house reminding myself that my squire was no longer a conman.

-o-

Richard Portman lived near the heart of town, which was only a few minutes' walk from The Chestnut. Fisk and I argued most of the way over what we should say, given that we were about to speak to a man who had just lost his sister. The possibility the we visit Harold's mother first did come up, as she had been granted slightly more time to grieve, but we reached our destination before we could agree to change courses.

Fisk had me stand by the side of the house and went to knock. Being the sheriff's wife, Richard seemed likely to know about any suspicions the sheriff's office might have of me. Seeing as I had nearly been arrested that morning, I had a good idea what those suspicions might be.

Richard opened the door with more promptness than I'd expected of a grieving man, and didn't look startled when he saw Fisk, so he must not have heard any descriptions of my squire from the rumors being passed around. When I saw him I realized I had never heard Mary's appearance described, but either way I thought it fortunate that marriage was her only relation to the man. Sherriff Portman was the sort of average that was unique in how unremarkable it was, but his cousin was notably less than average. Mismatched features, none quite the right size for any of the others, made him startlingly distinctive. Yet whatever other faults it might have had, his face seemed kind, so I focused on that.

He observed his guest a moment, smiling pleasantly when Fisk spoke. "Sorry to intrude. I was hoping to speak with you about your sister."

Now Richard shut his eyes and took a deep breath, suppressing a look of pain that the words had drawn to the surface. When he opened them again he inspected Fisk more thoroughly, then glanced around and spotted me.

"Sevenson and Fisk," he said. "Howard told me I might hear from you two." He looked to Fisk, the kindness in his expression now replaced with hard determination that, unfortunately, made him look more sinister than his tone suggested he felt. "I hope you understand. Your friend is the one man I can't suspect took Mary, but I won't have an unredeemed man in my house."

Fisk shrugged and gestured for me to come closer. "We can talk right here."

Had this not been my first time talking at a person's doorstep in a city where my status was known and I was suspected of a great crime—something that it irked me to experience more than once—I might have felt more hurt by his grimace at that declaration. As it was, it only stung a little.

Richard Portman looked like he would sooner eat a plate of hay than speak with us where his neighbors could see, but he swallowed and forced up a smile before saying, "Ask away."

"Did Mary know either of the other victims?" Fisk asked. This surprised me, for I thought he knew she did, but I had decided that it might be best if I made my presence less obvious, and didn't comment.

Richard nodded. "She was good friends with Potter. I thought… perhaps if someone was aiming for him while she was…" He broke off and looked away, then took a deep breath to gather himself before looking back at Fisk. "But that's silly. She was working at the time. The only one who might have had business going to Mistress Wilson's house was—"

"Michael," Fisk cut in. "Well, her Michael. This one was in jail at the time."

For no reason I could think of other than spite, Fisk patted me on the shoulder.

"It's nice to meet you, Michael," Richard said to me in a tone that left no uncertainty nice to meet me at all. "He's been in a foul mood since her death, but if you heard of Godwin, perhaps you could direct your questions to him instead."

I hadn't the slightest idea who that was, and might have said so now that attention had been drawn to me, but Fisk began volleying questions before I had the chance.

"Did Mary ever have business with Harold Carter?"

"She never mentioned anyone in the boy's family to me."

"Not even when he died?" Fisk pressed. "I can't imagine anyone not talking about the first murder in so many years." Especially when we knew she had heard of his murder.

"I didn't see her between his death and hers." Richard paused at this, and amended his claim. "Well, I saw her the morning after, but news of the murder hadn't made the rounds yet. I heard about it when I went out for lunch, and she…"

"Never came back," Fisk finished.

Richard nodded.

Fisk waited to see if Richard might need time to collect himself again, and when he did he went on without any need of prompt. "She had no children, and with our parents gone, her things went to me—but if you think that's a motive, she didn't have much. Some savings from work and what she won from playing cards with those miners, but not enough to kill a girl over."

Fisk cast me a look, and I recalled that he had been cynical before on what small things a man might kill for. I shook my head, for Richard didn't strike me as the type, and his grief for Mary felt genuine.

"Did you know any of the miners Mary spent her time with?" Fisk asked. "Did she ever talk about Drew Potter?"

"I didn't know anyone she befriended in the past few years. I couldn't tell you anything about them, other than that Potter was found dead, which you seem to know, and that she was good friends with Godwin, which you also know."

"Surely there must be something—"

Richard held up a hand to silence me, and said, "I'm happy to help anyone looking to fine the man who killed my sister, but she hasn't lived with me for some time and I'm just not suited to answer all of your questions."

"Do you know anyone who can?" Fisk asked. "I'd hate to speak to Potter's wife the same day he died."

Richard cringed. "That would be unwise. I haven't touched it yet, but I was meaning to go through Mary's diary for Howard. IF I find anything, I can tell you too."

"Thank you." Fisk's smile was too broad and polite to be sincere. "I just have on last thing."

"Yes?"

"You're cousin was a better judge of character than you."

With that Fisk turned and walked away, leaving both me and Richard gaping. My immediate instinct was to follow, but common courtesy urged that I apologize on his behalf first. However, when I looked to Richard to give some excuse for my squire's behavior, he had already shut the door.

It stared stupidly at the door for a moment before realizing that if he didn't want me around, then standing outside his house might not be the best idea. Particularly when the sheriff was his cousin. I ran after Fisk, and once I caught up to him said, "He isn't going to help us now."

"Yes he is. He wants the killer caught more than we do. Besides, the sheriff is his cousin. He's sure to tell him about this, and Portman—Howard Portman—will tell him what he thinks of us. There's no reason for you to put up with that from a man we're helping." Fisk declared, ignoring that we regularly put up with worse from people we attempted to help. I stopped and opened my mouth to mention as much, but Fisk grabbed my arm and pulled me along, saying, "Hurry up. We might still be in time for supper."

-o-

Belmont had returned by the time we reached The Chestnut, which was only to be expected given the lateness of the hour. Aaron seemed to have turned in early, so Belmont was taking care of the bar on his own.

I would have gone straight to bed, but Belmont assured Fisk that he could prepare a small meal while also pouring bears, and my squire ordered food for us. While we waited, I went out to check on the horses. I would have taken them out for exercise if Fisk had left me alone earlier, but Cranbor's streets were far from ideal for horse riding, and I didn't want to know how far from town I could take them before the sheriff would assume I was trying to run away.

I was brushing Chant when Belmont spoke up from behind me. "Lad, you family is Gifted, right? You sound noble, and most noblemen are."

I hadn't hear him come up, so he made me jump and drop the brush. This allowed me to use retrieving the brush as an excuse to calm myself before responding. "Yes. We all inherited Gifts from my mother, and my father is Gifted as well."

"I suppose you've all got a strong… ah… Gift, then. Aaron told me he sensed your…" He didn't finish his sentence, but rather let it trail off with an awkward gesture that left me with the unsettling feeling that he knew the exact word he wanted, and was hoping I might confess it.

Fisk says my acting is nothing short of terrible, but I tried to keep my voice even as I responded. "Aaron told me he knew nothing of magic." Also, 'twas impossible to see Gifts in a person, let alone feel them. Unless his powers worked differently from mine.

"Ah, well… a mute Gifted…" Belmont paused, then went on as though I hadn't said anything. :So do you have any abilities past finding magica?"

"I have a Gift for animal handling." 'Twas true. I had a few other Gifts, but none were as reliable. My magic might count as other abilities too, but if I only assumed he meant Gifts, then it wasn't a lie.

I didn't think he only meant Gifts.

He went on. "Magica sure is something, isn't it? Have you ever seen what magica soap can do?"

"I wasn't aware that there was such a thing. Surely the sacrifice for using a magica animal is high enough that it can be put to better uses than making soap." But if Aaron's magic _did _work like mine, I might not be surprised to hear that he had tested it. The idea of someone using magic so casually, just to see what it did or to take shortcuts in their daily life, made the hairs on the back of my neck prick.

"Well…" Belmont shifted his weight back and forth between his feet for a moment, then mumbled something about needing to go back and wipe a table. I allowed myself time to finish brushing Chant before returning to Fisk.

When he saw me come towards him, Fisk gave me a put upon grin and asked, "Did he give you a pep talk too? He talked my ear off about how he was so grateful that we were trying to help catch that killer, then made me stand here and keep patrons from sneaking beer so he could talk to you."

I could see that Fisk wanted to complain about this quite a bit more, but I wasn't in the mood to oblige him.

Leaning over, I said as quietly as I could without my voice being lost under that laughted of several nearby patrons, "Belmont asked about my magic."

"Well, he could have waited until morning to…" Fisk froze, the realization of what I'd said cutting down his urge to complain. "_What_?"

"My magic, Fisk. He knows."

"How did he…" Fisk stopped himself, glancing at the other patrons. They looked plenty drunk, especially given that the night had begun not too long ago, but my squire has never been fond of taking chances. "In our room. Now."

I followed Fisk to our room, where I explained how Belmont had tried to get me to admit to having powers beyond that of a normal Gift. Fisk takes my strange powers far too lihtly for my liking, and I'd feared he might think I was jumping to conclusions, but when I finished he nodded his agreement and told me, "I wouldn't be surprised if Aaron can see you magic—you can see his after all. From what I've seen and heard he and Belmonst seem to be very close, and aside from Harold, who he told us he wasn't friends with for some time, he hasn't mentioned anyone. It's likely that Belmont knows about Aaron's magic, and Aaron mentioned yours to him."

"But why would he do that?" Indignation rippled through me. My magic, my freakish secret, was none of Belmont's business. Aaron had no right to tell others about it.

To me it was clearly an affront, but Fisk only shrugged at it and said, "Maybe he's never seen another intelligent magic user before and had to share the news with someone. Wasn't that why you told me about _his_ magic?"

My cheeks flushed. I hadn't thought of it like that, but sill! "We're a pair of strangers stuck in town. Strangers who are suspected of murder. And the people here know him. If I were to go around telling everyone he could use magic—and I wouldn't, don't give me that look—I might be harmed, but they may believe him if he accused me."

"Then count your blessings that Belmont is the only one he's told. He probably can't tell anyone else anyway, if Belmont has to translate his gestures for others."

I still didn't like it, which must have been apparent, because Fisk patted me on the shoulder and said, "Relax. So long as we don't go around blabbing about his magic, I don't think Belmont will do anything."

-x-

**STA**: So this ended up being about 1k words longer than the previous chapter 12. I tried actually writing them moving somewhere rather than skipping the transition and fleshing out the conversation with Richard Portman. (I also got a bit confused on what to call him, but hopefully it doesn't look too out of place? They use last names in the books, but I tend to default to first names, and in this case there was already someone else with that last name, so...)

I also tweeked the ending a bit. I like this one much more.


	13. Chapter 13

_Fisk_

I'd expected it to take at least a week before we heard anything. I even played my card trick again to win some money and a free night from Belmont, who was still bent on figuring out how I pulled it off. In fact, despite what I told Michael, I wouldn't have been surprised if Richard Portman waited a bit longer than that before letting us know he found something. His cousin might even ask him to tell us nothing at all.

It took him two days, so he must have done nothing but gone through his sister's things. I'd been under the impression that he lived alone. Whoever employed him must have let him take some time off without fear of repercussion so he could grieve.

I was in the middle of contemplating helping Aaron bus tables in exchange for having a bit of the charge taken off our room when a boy pressed a note into my hand and scurried off. Having seen Michael nearly get himself killed by suspicious notes in the past, my immediate reaction was to make sure I got a good look at the boy as he fled, then to scan the room for any obvious signs that I was being watched.

The action alerted Michael, who came over and stood behind me to read the note as I unfolded it.

My concerns were for naught. It was a signed note from Richard, informing us that he had information, and that he would be willing to share it with us that afternoon. He had also invited his cousin over. It seemed reasonable. Why not tell both the sheriff and the amateur sleuths at the same time? Better yet, why not have the sheriff on hand while an unredeemed man was at your door?

I didn't mention this to Michael, but given how neither of us made haste on our way to Richard's home, he must have thought of the same thing.

"'Tis not that he was an unpleasant man," Michael said out of the blue as we pushed our way through an unusually crowded street. "He was simply…"

"Unpleasant?"

"No," Michael said firmly. "He was a good man, but one who judged too soon."

If Michael thought that, then he was an even worse judge of character than Richard was. But then I already knew that. If Michael was good at seeing people for who they were, we wouldn't be in this mess. Michael wouldn't be an easy to frame unredeemed man because we would have steered clear of Ceciel Mallory and her conniving steward and there never would have been a scandal for Michael to be caught up in.

The problem, near as I could tell, was that he insisted on finding good in everyone. Even the man who threw him over a cliff to his death was "ambitious." The only credit I could give Michael was that he had nothing good to say about Ceciel. Not since she locked him up an experimented on him. And even then he'd defended her against the accusation of killing her husband.

"Well, when someone who judges too soon judges a person negatively, people find him un—oomph!" Michael stopped abruptly and I, having been right behind him, walked into him.

"Ow. Michael?" No response. "Mike?"

He glanced back at me with an exasperated look that promised I would be called 'Nonny' later, then returned his gaze to… no, not ahead. Up. Over the rooftops. Not too far off smoke was rising, too thick to be the exhaust from a person's chimney.

"You don't think…?"

"It would be our luck," Micahel started back down the street at a quicker pace. "Is there a source of water nearby?"

"No." Most of the town got their water from a well. There was a brook, but it wasn't exactly close. "I don't think this town has a large enough water source for pumps, but they have to have some plan in place for fires. If we get into a bucket line, I don't suppose you could make the water… _better_ no matter how close they put to the fire?"

Michael winced, but didn't dodge the topic. "'Tis hard to say without… ah… having practice. The times I've done it before, I've had more than a second to hold the bucket. I don't know if it can take effect in so short a—"

"Then practice, dammit! Surely being able to use your…" I glanced around, but everyone was too busy staring at the smoke or rushing past to notice us, "your abilities in a situation like this would be worth it."

Michael broke into a run.

I'd said the wrong thing. He'd been willing to talk about how his powers worked and I let my exasperation with him get the better of me.

I found myself slowing down. I could have chased him, and I should have helped with the fire, but I sensed that Michael might be less likely to help to the fullest extent of his abilities if I was right there with him, and whether he wanted to use magic or not, he would likely forget that fear in his desire to help stop the fire. He'd be more use than me. Had a stranger not grabbed me and dragged me towards the fire, barking orders to everyone to help arrange a bucket line, I would have turned around and given Michael time to cool down on his own.

The man let go of me as we got to the street where the fire was. The house I was dragged to, the one that burned the strongest, was the fourth on the right—where we'd gone to see Richard Portman.

What a coincidence.

There was no saving any of the homes that had caught fire. Two lines had been formed to work from either side of the flame, the intent on keeping it from spreading. I couldn't spot Michael in either bucket line, but both went around the street so he may have been close to whichever water source we were drawing from.

Wherever they were getting their water, it wasn't enough for us to hold back the flames. Another building had caught fire by the time the fire fighters finally arrived to handle the situation, and even then, we had to maintain the bucket line until the last seconds before they pulled the houses down.

The fourth building to catch was burnt along one wall. We'd managed to save it. The home's owner went in and out, making sure all their most cherished belongings were still intact. He was polite enough not to celebrate too loudly. Three families sat beside the rubble crying.

For some of the women who'd formed the lines, for now that things were calmer I saw that it was mostly women, it was enough to offer their condolences and return to their busy days. It was only when the crowd dwindled that I was able to spot Michael, hovering near the charred remains.

I was too struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu to stop what happened next.

"What's going on here?" Sheriff Portman's voice rang out above the crowd. A young boy who'd helped haul bucked started trying to explain how the building had suddenly gone up in flames, but his mother pulled him away.

People looked not to Michael, thank the gods, but to a sobbing woman sitting near the center of the wreckage. "I was just cooking…" She said. "I was just cooking and I smelled smoke. When I looked, I saw the whole upstairs was on fire."

It hadn't been Richard's house? I counted the building down from the end of the street. The fourth from the right had been the first to catch. I'd _thought_ he was the fourth house on the right. Confused, I glanced around at the remaining houses and saw him watching from the fourth house on the left. I might have been amused with my assumption that he was being targeted thanks to us and the fire starter had made the same mistake I did… if he hadn't been watching Michael so intently.

"You don't know how the fire started?" Portman asked. "Did you leave a candle lit, or a lamp, perhaps?"

The woman shook her head. "Not a one. I don't think I did, anyway. But Wesley had gone to play with friends and I didn't want to have to stop my work to let him back in, so I left the door open." Wesley, I took it, was the small boy clinging to her skirt.

"So what?" A woman from the thinning crowd demanded. "You'd rather think that the killer started burning down houses than admit you were being negligent? That psychopath probably isn't even here. Own up to your mistakes, woman."

A low mumble accompanied her, and my heart when out to the sobbing woman.

"We've got a criminal right there," Richard spoke up. I winced as everyone, his cousin included, followed his gaze to Michael.

Michael looked at all of them in resigned disbelief, to the burnt houses, then finally to the sheriff and said, "I didn't do it."

"Is he the unreddemed man?"

"Someone like _that_ came into _my_ house?"

"They should have kept him in prison."

The sheriff looked questioningly to me. My word meant nothing, but I shook my head anyway."

"I…I didn't…" Michael looked to me as well, eyes begging for support. His word meant even less.

"He was right here," an officer pointed out. "That's an awfully big coincidence."

"It is," I agreed. "Aside from the part where you cousin sent for us, I mean."

The sheriff looked back to Richard, who hesitated, then nodded. "I did, but it's not as though I was watching for them. For all I know he could have started the fire and hoped to use me as an alibi."

"That's stupid," I told him. "Michael might not be the brightest at times—" despite the situation, I heard Michael start to speak up in protest ""—but he isn't _stupid_. He had nothing to do with this. We were still a few streets away when we saw the smoke."

"How come you didn't arrive together?" The man who'd dragged me into the bucket line asked. What was that cur still doing here?

I bit my lip. How wise would it be to say that Michael had run away from an argument he didn't want to have right after I'd insisted he wasn't stupid?

Sheriff Portman sighed and shook his head. "There's no helping it, I suppose. We'll hold him _again_ while we look for other suspects. He sent his cousin a meaningful look as he spoke. "Master Sevenson, it seems you're getting to become incredibly familiar with our jail."

The idiot nodded and said, "'Tis an honor."

-o-

"It had to be said."

"No it didn't."

Richard Portman scowled, but apparently my sour expression wasn't enough to worry him, seeing as he turned his back to me to grab for something on a nearby counter. After publicly admitting to summoning us, I had publicly asked if he still wanted me to pay him that visit. I'd mostly done it out of spite, and I suspected neither of us wanted me sitting at his kitchen table. But refusing to get information wouldn't get the sheriff to stop arresting Michael, and whether or not I liked Richard, I needed to at least try to be civil. No matter what I'd told Michael, I'd already pushed my luck the other day.

"He was suspicious," Richard said. "They needed a suspect."

I took a deep breath as subtly as I could and kept my voice even. "I was with him when we first saw the smoke. It wasn't him, and all that handing your cousin the wrong suspect does is make people feel like there's no lead to keep looking when a real fire starter could be out there. Assuming there even _was_ a fire starter. People here are eager to assume there's a criminal, for a town with almost no crime."

"For a town that had three murders in one week after decades of almost no crime," Richard corrected. "And your friend is unredeemed."

"I was there when that happened, too." Both the crime and his tattooing. Technically, I had been an accomplice. Though since I had been indebted to Michael at the time, I was let off the hook on the grounds that I was legally obligated to do as he told me.

That one caught Richard off guard, but he quickly recovered and took a seat next to meet at his table. He scooted aside an untouched plate of biscuits that he'd set out for the two of us and placed Mary's diary between us. "There would have been a mob when someone realized he'd been there and walked away without the sheriff doing a thing. Michael didn't kill Mary, but half the town thinks he killed all three of those victims and I'm not sure he had no hand in the other two. Now you came for what I found in Mary's diary, and I have to warn you it's not much."

"Great. So we got caught up in that fire for nothing."

Richard ignored me and started flipping through pages towards the end of the diary. "I started with her most recent entries. Since she had to have been killed by someone in town, they could have… have done it much earlier if whatever she was killed for didn't happen not too long ago. There's no reason to stall."

I cleared my throat to tell him that waiting for someone else to frame wasn't that bad a plan, but Richard held up a finger to silence me and went on.

"The only incident I found was a fight with Michael." His eye darted up to me. "Godwin. She and Michael Godwin got into a fight."

"The two of them were involved, correct?" I didn't know the exact details of their relationship, but if it was an affair he might not appreciate me saying so out loud.

"He was courting her,: Richard acknowledged. "She wasn't impressed, which I knew, though it seems she let him continue trying for… well, she let him continue trying." He cheeks turned pink, as any man's would when they found themselves confessing that their beloved sister lead men around for something. For what? Money? If she was extorting Godwin, then we had a motive to present to Portman.

If that was the case, then it was a shame she got caught. I was starting to like the girl. But rather than say that, I said, "He must have been a good man, if he tried so hard."

Richard took the bait with a snort. "If he were good man, they'd have been wed a long time ago. It seems she finally let him down a few weeks before she died. Apparently, he got into a fight over a card game and spent the night in prison for violence. She decided she didn't want to associate with someone who was, in her words, so short tempered and irrational."

He shut the book and stared at me, waiting to see if I would pick up on what he had so heavily hinted at.

"You think he might be short tempered and irrational enough to kill a woman who jilted him," I said.

"Most of their friends turned a blind eye to Michael's violence, and two apparently visited her workplace to ask that she reconsider her rejection. It could have been any of them—save for Drew. It may have even been multiple friends of his, and Drew was killed to keep the whole business secret. Maybe they acted without Michael knowing. I've seen Michael since Mary died and he certainly seemed upset with her loss. Although Drew was neither small nor weak, and of the lot, Michael was the only one who looked large enough to easily overpower one of the men in his group."

"And Harold Carter?"

"I haven't come across his name yet. You would have to ask one of the miners. I wish you the best of luck interviewing them."

Without Michael. That might not be a bad thing. Since no one could be punished for beating him, keeping him away from a group of laborers who might be prone to killing those that knew their secret was a safe option. But then I was better fighting with a weapon than my own fist, and that was hard to get away with when the law came to break things up. Having Michael on hand in case things went south might not be a bad idea.

I sat up and thanked Richard for his information, and was at his door before I remembered to ask "Have you told your cousin this yet?"

"I asked him to come too, but he's busy with those fires now. I'll bring it up to him soon, though."

"Today," I told him. The way mine and Michael's luck went, Richard's house might burn down as soon as I stepped out of it. "You get that diary to him today."


	14. Chapter 14

_Michael_

Sheriff Portman had told the truth. I _was_ becoming incredibly familiar with the jail. I was even getting to know Theodore, who brought my meals and whose wife was so optimistic about the child they were expecting despite having lost her father in a mining accident three months ago. They were hoping for a little girl who would marry a kind young man from somewhere far from the mines.

After the first night I spent locked up, he would linger and talk to me for some time when he came to collect my plate. On the morning of the third day he even brought a book so I could keep myself occupied, but come supper time he asked that I return it.

"We're letting you go," he explained as he unlocked my door. "There haven't been any more fires, but we found the boy the sheriff's cousin sent, and by his account you weren't there when the fire started. Not everyone believes it, but the sheriff doesn't really care about the fires anymore."

I started to fold the corner of my page, then caught myself and shut the book. I would regret that if I ended up in jail again, but I would rather not count on such misfortune. "That's strange. He seemed concerned with making sure he appeared to be doing something about these crimes." I could think of no other good reason that he should arrest me when I kept providing alibis.

Theodore nodded. "Well, no one will be too surprised if he slacks off o the man with evidence of his innocence. Or if he hangs you and demands that we close off the mines so all the workers can help turn the town upside-down hunting for the killer. Not that he can do that last part. There was another murder."

I'd been let out at the cost of someone's life again. I suppressed a shudder and asked, "Is Fisk alright?"

"Your clerk friend? He's fine. We had men on him day and night—he even talked one of them into paying for his room in exchange for watching him from in there." Theodore's lips twitched up in amusement as he stepped out of the cell doorway. That sounded like my squire, and I grinned despite the grim news. "Doesn't matter, anyway. It's clearly a miner behind this."

"How would you know?" I asked asked.

"Because another miner died, that's how. Happened in the middle of the day, too." He gestured for me to come out. "Poor bastard had just returned to work after his sister died, and some sick decided to bash in his head. They found him bleeding out near one of the veins they've just started working at."

I froze in the doorway. "The sheriff's cousin?"

"That's the one. Sheriff's in a bad mood right now, so he isn't coming to see you off. Your friend should be back at that inn you two were staying at. Don't get into trouble on the way there. Exit's that way."

He didn't need to point to the stairs when he said that. It was clearly the only exit in the room. I thanked him anyway and left him to feed two men who had gotten into a drunken brawl the previous night, steps feeling strange under my feet as I processed the news.

Richard Portman was dead. Richard Portman who had just lost his sister. A sister whose friend had also been killed. Richard Portman who'd been just across the street from the fire.

The idea that stuck me was so absurd that I couldn't help but chuckle. That the killer had tried to set his house on fire and gotten the wrong building was preposterous. Wesley's mother must have left a lamp burning that caught fire to a sheet, or something to that effect. Our killer wasn't a fire starter.

Unless he was, and realized it couldn't be mistaken for an accident if a second fire started just across the street. From Theodore's account, it seemed that Richard had died differently from the others. Did that make it the same killer wanting to look different, or a second killer?

We could find ourselves facing a third killer, if there was still no connection to Harold. Richard hadn't looked like someone it was hard to grab the neck of, and by all accounts Drew would have been, so if it was the same killer, there was no reason he couldn't stick to his old method. Thinking of changing methods and other murderers kept me occupied on my walk back to The Chestnut.

Fisk must have come to the same conclusion I did, for the moment I walked into the inn, I heard him say, "They were trying to make it look like rocks fell on him, or at least that someone else did it. They didn't want Richard's murder to be connected to Mary's."

"I'm relieved to see that you're well too."

"Sorry. I'm glad you're okay." He sounded dismissive, but if my squire was caught up in finding the killer, then I supposed I could forgive him."

"Theodore seemed certain the killer was a miner," I told him. "If Richard was killed while mining, then 'tis possible. Drew may have been the man's target too, and Mary was unfortunate enough as to have overheard something she shouldn't have."

"And Harold?" Fisk asked, though I could tell he didn't expect me to have a good answer.

That made me want to have a good answer. "Mayhap he was in the same situation as Mary. Goodman told me he worked near the mines. 'Tis possible his work put him near the killer by mistake."

Fisk leaned back against the inn's small bar counter and thought about it longer than I'd expected him to. My last minute ideas rarely earned more than a scoff from him. Like all the others, though, this one was eventually turned down. "Too much of a coincidence. Especially since this all happened once an unredeemed man showed up. You don't wait for the perfect shmuck to take the fall for you when you need to kill someone to keep them quiet."

"First idiot and now shmuck." I sighed. "Well, what's your idea then?"

"In any case, Richard was certain it was Mary's suitor that killed her," Fisk told me. "A mutual friend of theirs would be likely to know if something passed between them and report it, so Drew could have been killed to keep quiet. He was killed fast enough after Mary died that I would believe that was the motive."

"Mary's suitor was a miner," I added.

Fisk nodded. "One who Richard visited since Mary's death. A dead woman's brother and her suitor would have to have talked about her, if only their memories of here. It would be the perfect situation to mention that you inherited a diary in. And if there was any incriminating evidence, a diary would be a good place for it to be hidden."

I laughed. "Then this Michael Godwin isn't too bright. The diary will likely end up in the sheriff's hands now. The man is Richard's next of kin, isn't he? At least he wasn't _stupid_ enough to kill the same way four times."

"Three. Maybe even two," Fisk replied, taking no notice of my choice of words, or otherwise not remembering how he'd publicly insulted me several days earlier. "He's our best candidate for Drew's killer, and likely Richards. But Harold… I would like to think he had a hand in Harold's deah, but it would be strange for him to kill someone who—for all we know—was a total stranger before moving to three people he had close ties to."

Aaron must have been listening to our discussion from around the corner, for I saw him peek his head out of the hallway and quietly slip up behind Fisk at the mention of his old friend.

"You think there are two killers?"

"No." For once, Fisk's lie was transparent. "It's too unlikely, isn't it? Multiple murderers turning up after so many years of peace. There has to be a link we haven't found yet."

"Mayhap our killer destroyed it. For all we know, Harold lived in one of the homes that caught fire."

Fisk's eyes lit up, and he clasped my shoulders. "Michael, that's brilliant!" And here I thought I wasn't bright. "He _did_ try to get rid of the diary! When I saw the first was on the wrong side of the street I did wonder if there had been a mistake, but it _was_ intended for Richard's home. Godwin must have forgotten which side of the street he lived on, like I di—"

He coughed and cleared his throat, but I caught the error. 'Twas not worth mentioning, but I gave him a light smile to let him know he hadn't gotten away with hiding it.

"If you were unsure of which side you meant to burn, 'twould be tempting to choose the side that had an open door."

Fisk nodded, but his enthusiasm was already fading. "The only problem is that I've already asked the men who were keeping an eye on me until the found Richard about Godwin," he recalled. "Godwin and his friends were among the first to be interrogated after Mary died. And he's had more time now to work out any story he might have and fake sincerity, if he couldn't do that already."

"Then it's lucky for us that you're good at detecting acts," I told him. "We have evidence he doesn't know we have now. We need to speak to him"

I could have recited Fisk's objection to going to ask our murder suspect what he knew about the murders. I just might have said it with him, and Aaron not chosen that moment to tap Fisk's shoulder. Startled, Fisk yelped and spun around, and was even reaching to his side for a sheath to a knife that he hadn't warn since my first arrest in Cranbor.

When he it was only Aaron, he paused a moment, then began to scold the boy for sneaking up behind him so quietly.

"Fisk, he's mute."

"He doesn't have to _walk_ so softly, though! He doesn't even—" The moment Aaron started to gesture Fisk stopped speaking—though he still looked rather flustered—and focused on the hand motions. None needed to be repeated or explained. It seemed my squire had improved his understanding of this secret language in my absence. As for myself, the only gesture I understood meant 'go'.

"Well?" I asked.

"He wants to know if we should tell the sheriff," Fisk said. "I suppose we should, but it's not like we've found anything Portman already certainly hasn't. Richard was his cousin, after all. He should have the diary now."

"'Twould be best to mention our suspicions about the fire—mayhap even the meeting between his cousin and Godwin," I pointed out. Consolatory visits weren't often something you mentioned in casual conversation with family, and there was no other reason anyone should know that Godwin might have known about the diary. "Even if Portman did know they spoke, if the stopped suspecting Godwin then they might not have given much thought to the conversation."

Aaron clapped his hands together and headed for the door. Apparently we seemed to be close enough to agreement that he was satisfied. He must not have seen Fisk and I argue often enough.

"Possible," Fisk acknowledge, "But I hardly think this is the best time to go see him. He was in a _bad_ mood when he came to pick up the men he had watching me. If you cough at the wrong time, he might have you whipped."

Aaron spun back and gave me a gesture that I could understand meant he was pleading.

"I still think 'twould be best to let him know."

Fisk crossed his arms and opened his mouth to argue, shut it, followed my gaze to Aaron, and sighed. "Neither of us are particularly credible."

"They accept Aaron's word."

He threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine. I'll keep Belmont company. You'd better not be in jail again when Aaron comes back."

Aaron laughed—as best he could, and the two of us set out for the sheriff's office.

The urge to ask Aaron more about our most troublesome victim as we made our way to the sheriff's was overwhelming, but there was a problem with attempting to speak with him. "I don't know most of your signs," I said.

He shrugged and pointed me to the next turn we would take to reach the sheriff, even though I had been there and back far more often since coming to town.

My ignorance didn't seem to trouble him, so I continued. "Would it be alright if I asked you questions which you could answer by nodding or shaking your head?"

Aaron nodded.

"I was wondering about your old friend, Harold. His employer seemed to think he had no friends before he did. Is that true?"

Aaron shrugged, stopped for a moment, then nodded.

"Were you his only friend?"

Aaron shook his head.

"You two had a fight, correct? Did he lose all his friends when this happened?"

Aaron nodded.

"So he did something to offend all of you?"

Aaron nodded, then shrugged and tried to explain with his hands.

"You can tell Fisk the details later," I assured him. "One last question. Do you know if Harold had much to do with any of the miners, since he worked near them?"

Aaron shrugged.

We continued our guessing game for the remainder of the walk, although from there on it truly was a game. Aaron would think of something and I would need to narrow down what might be on his mind as he confirmed or rejected my guesses, but I was only given so many tries. I didn't win either game before we reached the sheriff's office, but I narrowed it down to cleaning tools both times.

Sheriff Portman was out examining the murder scene, according to an officer who was left behind. Aaron and I stood outside and wondered if we should go look for him at the mines when the answer found us.

"You!" Aaron and I both flinched as a pair of hands grabbed our shoulders and spun us around. "This was a peaceful town before you came! I ought to lock you back up and throw the key down a well!"

"Good evening, sheriff." I heard myself say.

Sheriff Portman growled. "Get out. You and your friend. I want you out of town _now_."

"But the murders—Fisk and I have a suspect and—"

"Out."

'Twould certainly make Fisk happy to be rid of the whole mess, but poor Richard Portman has looked so saddened over his sister's death. He and Mary both had died in such a way as to give me freedom. And Richard wasn't the only one who experienced the pain of losing a relative. "I know you lost someone from your family earlier today, but if you'd only listen—"

"I don't care. You didn't do it. I know it and so will the rest of the town if this keeps up once you've left. If not, then ride fast and it won't matter. You and your friend can…"

He stopped and looked to Aaron, who was waving frantically. Perhaps he had been doing so for some time. With Portman yelling at me, I wouldn't have noticed.

Once he had the sheriff's attention, Aaron switched to a pleading gesture. He had to awkwardly adjust into a similar position that a dog might take while begging for scraps with one hand as he let the other rest on the sheriff's arm.

Light trailed off of Aaron's fingertips and up the man's skin.

A chill shuddered through me, and I struggled to keep my expression even, though I was certain I'd gone pale. Aaron's glow, while suspect, had faded by this point into the usual scenery. Like the tattoos on my wrists. 'Twas still magic, but once I was over the shock of seeing magic in a new place, it quickly became something I thought little of, beyond to be cautious not to harm it. To actually witness someone using magic…

My stomach clenched, and I fought down the urge to retch. Neither seemed to notice, gaze fixed on one another, and I'd recovered from my shock by the time Aaron let go.

Portman shook his head, as if rousing from a light sleep, and scowled at me. "Fine. You can stay, but if I get any more trouble, so help me, I'll hang you."

His eyes looked unfocused.

I mean to ask him if he was alright, but my voice failed me. Still seeming to be in a daze, he wandered into his office while I struggled to find words.

Finally, it occurred to me to look to Aaron, and queasy horror hit me again. He grinned conspiratorially at me, and lifted a finger to smirking lips to signal that I keep quiet about what had transpired.

I didn't want to know how much he knew. Not about me, and now about what I knew about him.

It felt like I was in a daze walking back to the inn too, and I might have gotten lost had Aaron not led. At his prodding, we picked up our guessing game again, but I didn't give much thought to what questions I asked. Somehow, I won the third round despite this. The boy who could make the sheriff bend to his will had been thinking about a wash rag.

-x-

**STA**: I cracked up seeing that I'd added this. Michael playing 20 questions with a mute boy just looks cute in my mind.

Damn, though. Another time where I'm kinda peeved with Bell for her expanding on magic in canon calling some crap I made up into question. At least this time it was more confirming what I added, though. Aaron's trick was kinda similar to what Michael did a few times in _Thief's War_.

Eight more chapters before I'm actually posting new content…


	15. Chapter 15

_Fisk_

_You promised_.

"I know. I know," I told Aaron. It didn't convince him, somehow. He came to a stop, folded his arms, and scowled at me, tapping his foot in irritation.

It had been a mistake to express my displeasure when I'd learned how close we came to being able to leave town. Not that I didn't want a murderer stopped or anything, but if Michael Godwin had killed Richard to protect his identity, then he would kill us if we were too obvious about approaching him. If Michael hadn't insisted that the sheriff let us stay and find the real killer, we could have told Portman our suspicions then washed our hands of the mess. No murderers to be cautious of. No prison for Michael to constantly be brought back to. We wouldn't be on our way just then to talk to our primary suspect and suggest we knew he was the killer. We could _leave_.

I wasn't selling myself on the whole apologetic routine, so I shoved back any thoughts of how we could have got away and did my best to look like I truly felt guilty as Aaron began flashing through a series of hand motions too fast for me to follow. _Harold was – and – never happens so – inexperienced – I had hoped you two could – him._

"We will." Whatever it was he wanted. "It's just that… I miss sleeping outdoors." I let my voice fall flat so he'd know I was joking. It was that or have Michael on my case for lying, or Aaron continuing to pester me for not giving his dead ex-friend higher priority.

"Fisk."

"Don't worry. We'll keep looking into it," I promised.

Aaron beamed at me.

"Fisk," Michael persisted.

I didn't break eye contact with Aaron. "We'll go see Michael soon, Michael."

_I don't think that will help if you're certain he didn't kill Harold_, Aaron signed to me.

"He definitely had something to do with the Portman's murders," I reminded Aaron. If Godwin really was the killer—and for the sake of closure I hoped he was—then I might be able to convince Michael there was only one killer after all, and he would be satisfied with letting us move on. Whoever Harold's killer really was, he hadn't struck since we'd first past through town. If we were luck, he would wait until we'd left before striking again."

And if Michael was lucky he'd already done all the killing he was going to do.

_I suppose you're right._ Aaron sighed, which was one of the few times you could audibly hear him.

"Of course I'm right. Now if there's nothing more to argue over—"

Aaron, you lied to us."

I froze, not sure if I should be mildly annoyed, or completely mortified. If Michael really had to call Aaron out on whatever he'd decided to be upset by, couldn't he have done so _before_ pestering me about leaving? Had Michael spoken up because of what I'd said?

Aaron, who wasn't used to Michael enforcing his honesty policy on others, gave Michael a warning glare that quickly switched to a innocent, confused look, accompanied by a shrug.

"What does that mean?" Michael demanded.

"It seems he doesn't know what you're talking about."

Michael scowled. "He said he didn't know anything about magic," Aaron nodded. "And Belmont told me he was gifted." Aaron froze, eyes widening in horror. I was so intent on his reaction that I only caught further movement from Michael out of the corner of my eye, and glanced back at him in time to see his lips stop moving in a silent threat.

Could Aaron read lips? Whatever else Michael meant to call him out on, it was something he was sparing Aaron from having revealed before me.

So I would just ask Michael about it when we were alone. For now, we were getting these murder cases closed so we could finally get out of this town. Michael shouldn't have been focusing on Aaron. "I'm sure he just didn't want attention drawn to it." Aaron nodded and gestured to his throat, sending me a grateful look when Michael took his eyes off him to scowl at me. "Having to deal with people wanting him to use his sensing gift to help all the time while being unable to communicate easily would be a nightmare."

Aaron folded his arms and grinned smugly at Michael, which worried me a bit. No one in this town could lie, and Aaron was included in that whether he had a voice or not. Bringing him along for something that required as much tact as getting a confession, or a near enough thing, from a murderers was a terrible idea. So was bringing Michael, although he'd gotten better at not completely giving us away since we first started traveling together.

"And I suppose his only gift is to sense things," Michael said through gritted teeth.

Not noting that it hadn't been a question, Aaron nodded and added his own details to his lie. _Belmont never expects me to use my Gift, but I have used it in my work. He's very kind. Even though I can't communicate easily with most of our customers, he's very considerate of me._

"It was nice of Belmont to hire you," I said. I might have said it a little louder than I needed to, so Michael couldn't possibly ignore that the subject had changed.

Aaron was positively beaming as he went through the next series of gestures. _My father died in a mining accident. It was the same one Belmont always talks about. I was-_

"That's actually not so nice."

He signaled for me to be quiet, then went on. _I was there to help pull Belmont out, but my father was killed when the cave-in first happened. Father and Belmont were friends, and Belmont raised me after the cave-in. He doesn't talk about it, but I'm told he had a daughter who fell ill several years earlier._

"I see. I'm sure he was happy to have you." Aaron's face lit up even brighter, but I managed to look past it to see the entrance to the mine grounds coming up quick. Now, since there's _nothing_ left to argue over, let's go see this other Michael."

"I have an argument," Michael told me.

"Nope. We have nothing left to argue over."

"But Aaron should really—"

"Nothing."

"—wait back here so he—"

"Left"

"—won't be associated with us."

"To argue… oh. No, that's a good point."

One that Aaron was already crossing his arms and shaking his head to.

"We have no evidence that this man was behind your friend's death," Michael told him, "But we do have reason to believe he will try to kill anyone who might suspect him. If he kills us, you have to report him on our behalf."

"I have no plans of dying," I added, but Aaron already seemed satisfied with the responsibility, so I didn't elaborate on how much I intended to not die.

Aaron left at the gate to the mine grounds, Michael and I entered and began searching for a ridiculously huge man. Spotting none, I started searching for someone who might be willing to talk to us. Michael, in the meantime, became fixated on a pile of rubble protruding from one end of a short cliff across the grounds. A cursory glance didn't reveal anything that might be magica, but by Michael's account such things glowed in his vision, so there might be something small that would stick out more obviously to him.

Whatever it was, Michael was completely fixated on it, so I took it upon myself to grab the arm of a miner as he passed. He looked like a good mark, large enough to feel confident in his ability to defend himself, with a friendly face that might not turn us away just for the tattoos on Michael's wrists.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man looked a bit startled when grabbed his sleeve, but wasn't even done sizing me up before he'd relaxed into an amiable grin. "You two the men the sheriff is holding in town? Bet it gets expensive renting a room night after night. If you want to speak with the director, we can find some work for you. Don't know if we need a clerk at the moment, but the unredeemed one looks like he could be a real help. We'd have to keep an eye on him initially, of course, but—"

"We're not looking for work," I told him. "You don't want to waste your time training us for the job anyway."

That roused Michael. "Actually, I—"

"Go see what that was," I told him, pushing him in the direction that he had been staring. Given everything else Michael had some experience with, I should have known he'd tried his hand at mining.

Michael gave me an unamused look before going to inspect whatever magic he'd spotted.

With him out of the way, I returned my focus to the miner. "If at all possible, we'd like to speak with Michael Godwin. We're trying to find the killer, and we heard that he might have known one of the victims. If he has any insight into who he saw his fiancée with before she died, we might be able to find her justice."

It was the right emotional appeal. The importance of what he'd been asked took the man, and while his smile didn't disappear, it became tight and determined. "He must be down in the mines right now. Can't just send you down, but I'll track him down and let him know that he's got a few people who might be able to help."

"Thank you, sir," I called after him as he scurried off towards a building. Hopefully checking some schedule to see where Godwin might be, and not reporting our presence. In case it was the latter, I figured I ought to warn Michael of the possibility that we would be forcefully removed from the premise.

Michael was holding a rock in each hand when I approached him, judging their weight, if the way he lifted and lowered them was any indicator. When I got close enough he wordlessly passed one to me and grabbed another, inspecting it as well.

The stone weighed almost nothing.

"Maybe it's wood," I said.

"'Tis stone."

"Magica?"

"Yes."

"Does that normally happen?"

Michael dropped both stones into the rubble. They landed softly.

"No. There shouldn't be such a thing as magica stones. Magica water as well."

It didn't take much to pick up Michael's implication, though I needed a moment to come up with a reason for those stones in particular. "There was a bad cave-in years ago, remember? Aaron went in and rescued a lot of people while trying to find his father." Had Michael not been with me when I heard that story? No matter. "We knew he had magic. He must have made the stones lighter."

"And softer," Michael added. He even grabbed another and squeezed it to demonstrate, leaving a hand shaped imprint wrapping around the rock. "Rocks aren't soft, and they aren't light. Aaron made these _less_ what they were. And unless he sneaks down here when he has time off from work, he did this years ago."

If Aaron hadn't spent most of the evening following us around, I would have expressed skepticism at the idea that he ever had time off. "Can you do that too? Make things worse at what they do? Or do you only make them better?"

Michael grunted and tossed the rock he'd squeezed back into the rubble. So the answer was probably "I don't know because I refuse to test my powers."

I let the subject of magic drop, which left me with no idea what else to say, since Michael was still inspecting the rocks, albeit at a distance now. It was almost a relief when a large hand clapped my back, causing me to stumble forward a few steps.

"Charley says you two wanted to have a word with me," a man, a _huge_ man who had somehow snuck up on me, said.

He had to be Michael Godwin. They hadn't been exaggerating when they called him massive. I'd known men who grew to freakish heights before, but never one who was not only so tall there was no door he didn't need to duck through, but also so broad and bulky that he likely had to go through those doors sideways in order to fit. I wasn't sure I wanted to speak to him without a good ten or fifteen witnesses to keep him in line. If he wanted us dead, I didn't doubt he could reach out and snap our necks easily.

Godwin gave me a half-hearted grin then placed a hand on Michael's shoulder (and much too close to Michael's neck) in order to get the fool's attention. Michael flinched, looked back at Godwin, and gaped.

I realized my own jaw was hanging down, and shut it.

Our reactions must have been normal. Godwin laughed. "You must be the other Michael. I've been getting a lot of grief thanks to you. My friends won't let up about how I'm 'the unredeemed man.'"

Michael managed to shut his own hanging jaw for all of three seconds before he said, "I would imagine they stopped when one of your friends died."

Normally, this was the point where I would stomp on Michael or elbow him or, somehow, let him know to keep quiet. In this case, I found the look of grief that swept over Godwin's face interesting enough to let Michael's tactlessness slide. Rather than try and stop Michael, I let his words lead me in to my own act.

"We've been looking for whoever it was that took her life," I said gently. "Perhaps you could tell us about the victims. Everyone whose died so far seems to be from your circle, so it could very well be another friend of yours."

The grief instantly shifted too alarm. "You really think so. That would be… I mean…" He paused, looked dubiously at the pile of rubble that had fascinated Michael, then gestured to another stone outcrop not too far away. "Let's sit."

By the time we were seated, Godwin had figured the appropriate mixture of despair and concern to show in his expression. "Is sounds awful to think one of them would have been responsible for what happened to Drew, and to my sweet little Mary." Not so awful that he was denying the possibility, of course.

"I'm going to be blunt," I warned him. "Do you think one of your friends could have done it?"

"William," Godwin said automatically. "I'm the first to admit I have a short temper, but he's not much better. Not to mention, I'd seen him look at Mary in ways I just don't like. Didn't like, I suppose." He shrugged his massive shoulders, completely relaxed as he talked about the friend he decided was guilty. "Bless her soul."

Jack would have loved setting up work in this place, if he'd thought there was any money in it. Not a single soul in this town could lie convincingly.

I nudged Michael, and he took the cue to speak. "Mary was your fiancée, wasn't she?"

Godwin nodded, then stopped himself and shook his head with a chuckle. "She was a stubborn girl. I almost had her. Would have succeeded if I had a little more time. Well, if she had a little more time." He put on a glum look again.

I couldn't be more convinced, and he had connections enough that we could report him to the sheriff, so it was time to wrap things up. "I'd imagine you don't want to spend your break being interrogated by an unredeemed man and his friend." Godwin nodded, though the sly grin and glace cast Michael's way told me that _he_ was also of the opinion that the two of us had easy to break necks. "I just have one more question. Did you, or William, or anyone else you know, know Harold Carter?"

"The first kid to bite it?" Godwin scrunched up his face in what, for the first time, looked like a genuine expression of thoughtfulness. "Think I've seen him once or twice, maybe. I would assume I have. Sometimes something goes wrong loading carts and a stable hand comes to help, so odds are I've seen him, but no one pointed him out to me. I remember hearing that name a year ago. Some big to-do with that boy who helped everyone out of the collapsed mine as a kid." Godwin gestured to the pile of soft rubble. "Don't know what exactly happened, but I think the Harold kid was spreading some sort of nasty rumor. People who that mute saved didn't take well to it. Anyway, I don't know why any of my friends would have gone after him. Williams been here a while, though. Maybe he was one of the ones from the cave-in."

"Thank you. We won't take any more of your time," I told him, standing and pulling Michael up. I had to yank a bit harder when he protested, but once on his feet he was silent until we'd waved farewell to Godwin and but a good distance between ourselves and him.

"Fisk, why didn't you ask him anything about… about a motive?" Michael demanded once we were nearing the gates and Godwin had disappeared back into the mines. "We didn't learn anything!"

"Yes we did. Even you could tell he was acting, right? I mean, _you_ do a better job of faking it than that display he just put on." Michael's silence could have meant he didn't notice just as much as it could have meant he didn't like to hear that I thought him a halfway decent faker. "He was too laid back. Forgot to act like he was grieving. Jumped at the chance to blame someone else, but showed no anger towards them. If he'd been casual about the entire affair I might think it was his way of coping, but the emotions he gave were too varied for that. To act upset at times but not dwell on it—"

"Means he was _trying_ to seem upset."

"So if he didn't kill those three himself, he was almost certainly involved. And I'd bet every last fract we have that he would handle things himself. Did you see how _huge _he was."

Michael grinned. "I noticed. But there were four victims."

"Three. Three for sure," I said. "He immediately tried to pin the blame for his friends' deaths on another man who knew them. Did it like he didn't already try to frame you for one of them. He needed prompting to consider Harold, and didn't have a fake motive ready."

"This town had no major crimes for decades. You really think they might have _two_ killers now."

"No. I'm certain they do."

-x-

**STA**: So yeah, that whole scene with the rocks came outta nowhere. I'm trying to avoid too much summarizing now and was decided to "foreshadow" Michael being able to make those men horrible klutzes in _Thief's War_. Also gives me some lead in for when Michael uses his magic later.


	16. Chapter 16

_Michael_

"'Tis too unlikely for such a quiet, peaceful town to have two murderers the moment was pass through," I insisted. I had certainly entertained the notion, but faced with the serious possibility, the idea was too disturbing. I'd protested it all through the night, as well as breakfast, and intended to do so until we reached the sheriff's office. I was surprised by this point that Fisk hadn't tuned me out or ran on ahead, but then he does love to argue.

"There's a difference between a town with no criminals and a town with no motives to commit crime," Fisk replied. "Godwin seems like a spur of the moment type. Mary left him so he killed her in a fit. Drew threatened to call him on it, so he killed his friend to keep him from talking. Richard let slip that he had evidence against Godwin, so he got rid of Richard as soon as he could. But it sounds like Harold made his enemies last year. Whoever killed him was waiting for the right time."

I sighed. "Do you get the feeling we've been in this situation before?"

"I had that feeling more during the fire."

"Mayhap one of Aaron's other friends is involved," I suggested. Godwin made it sound like there had been others. It would have been nice if Aaron mentioned that. In fact, why hadn't he? "Mayhap 'twas Aaron."

"No. Aaron would have been more obvious about it," Fisk thought aloud. "Unless he's a good enough actor to pretend he can't act… but then he was taking a huge risk by lying so poorly when you mentioned magic."

I'd already forgotten about that. The memory of Aaron working magic on Portman himself made me shiver, and though I ached to tell Fisk, revealing more of Aaron's secrets might prompt him to tell Belmont more of my own. Who knew how much he had figured out?

"You shouldn't have lied for him," I said instead. Lying was a habit I'd yet to break Fisk of, although I'd come to see that it had it's uses.

"You shouldn't have questioned him," Fisk fired back. Dropping to a whisper so others on the street would not be privy to our conversation, he added, "So what it he has magic? I thought you were pretending you didn't anyway. It's not our business."

When I didn't say anything, Fisk sighed and steered me towards the sheriff's office.

"It _doesn't_ matter," he repeated one last time. "Now do you want to put a killer behind bars or not?"

I did, curse him. I was getting tired of Fisk trying to use either Aaron or the killer to distract me from the other. Were it not for his switching back and forth between the two, I may have figured one out by now. I might have told him so, but the most we had on Godwin was suspicion. Hopefully enough to get Portman to look at Mary's diary and interrogate the man again, but either way we were betting on the sheriff taking _our_ word on something.

I must have been sulking, for Fisk spent most of our walk to the sheriff's searching for a topic to catch my interest with increased desperation.

"You may not want to see him," An officer warned the second we set foot in the building. It seemed we'd been here often enough to be predictable. "He's still a bit sore that he lost his cousin."

And given how he had reacted to seeing me last time, I might not want to stick around. But before I could voice this concern, Fisk said, "Well that's a shame, but he'll be missing his cousin for a while, won't he?"

"Maybe it would be best if I delivered whatever message you've got," the man persisted. "Or do you have something you need me to ask him?"

Not crossing Portman's path sounded like a good idea to me. Fisk too, for he nodded and said, "That might be for the best. I understand you spoke to Michael Godwin after Mary Portman's death?"

"Aye, we did. He hadn't any clue who might have killed her too, if that's where you're going," the officer told us. He was already picking up a file to look over instead of continue the conversation. "Same for when his friend died."

"But when he—"

"Godwin named _me_ when his friend died," I interrupted.

That made the officer freeze long enough for Fisk to say what he'd meant to.

"He named someone different when we spoke to him, but that's not the point." Fisk paused, looking at me uneasily, and I could see that he hadn't meant to mention that so soon. This would be our word against his, and Fisk was good at getting people to believe what he wanted them to. I left the explanation up to him.

"He named someone?" the officer asked.

Fisk chewed his lip as he thought of what to do, then gave the name of the friend Godwin has been willing to betray.

"But we think he was lying," Fisk said. "After all, he already claimed he _saw_ Michael… ah… Michael Sevenson kill his friend, but now he says it was another friend of his that did it. And the way he spoke… well… No, nevermind."

"What is it?" The officer prodded. "What did he say?"

Fisk looked to me with uncertain eyes. I might have assured him as well if he weren't also grinding his heel into my toe. Instead, I held silent and let my discomfort show. 'Twould best not to expose Fisk's act while he was using it on a man who might arrest us. "I don't know if this is alright to say or not," Fisk muttered.

"We need to hear it," insisted the officer.

The heel came off my foot. "Well, it's just that he seemed… callous about it," Fisk said. "I mean, I'm sure a good man would be distraught to lose a lover and a friend so suddenly, and he looked sad enough at first, but the longer we spoke with him, the less he seemed to care. He didn't even mind talking to Michael after telling everyone that he was the man who killed…"

"Drew Potter," the officer supplied.

"Yes. Him."

The officer set his files down, folding his hands and resting his chin upon them, and fell silent for much too long. I was beginning to wonder if we should leave when he lifted his head up. He looked startled to see us still standing there, despite our having been in front of him the whole time. "This is at least interesting. Especially because Godwin was the one who swore he saw you kill Potter."

"How nice of him," I muttered.

The officer didn't seem to notice that I spoke. "I'll let Portman know. We might recruit someone else to ask him. See if he's still inconsistent with his names. Anything else."

"Yes," Fisk took a step closer to the desk. "This one should be easy to get, since I believe the sheriff already inherited the evidence. You see, Mary had this diary…"

-o-

We ended up staying while Fisk recounted his entire conversation with Richard and Silvia, sharing his suspicions as to why Godwin had killed each of the three victims he was linked to. I hadn't been present for much of this discovery, so I focused intently on it and paid no heed to the rush of men in and out of the building that picked up at some time during Fisk's story.

The officer diligently took notes throughout, occasionally asking for clarification. When he was finally done he set his pen aside and smiled for us. "This might be it. Thank you. I'll be sure to bring it to Portman. We'll check Godwin out again, don't you worry."

"I'm glad to hear it," Fisk said.

"You'd best be going. No sense letting him see you before we've found his cousin's killer."

We didn't even have time to turn around before another officer called out to us.

"You aren't the unredeemed man, are you?" the man asked.

"That's him," Fisk said, gesturing to me. "What did someone say he did _this_ time?"

The question gave this new man a moment's pause before he went ahead with what he was going to say. "We just got a report that they found another body. The sheriff's busy assuring some of the wealthier folk that it's still safe to stay in town and run their businesses here, but once he gets back we'll tell him and head out to see how bad the damage is. Sounds like this one was dead for a little while first, so rushing out isn't going to help us nab the killer. I head the two of you were staying at the Chestnut?"

"Yes…" I wondered if my heart could sink any lower. Had Godwin gone to our inn and attacked Aaron? But we'd been careful not to have him seen with us at the mines.

"You might want to look somewhere else for lodging, if you don't end up in the cell again tonight. Doesn't sound safe there anymore."

"Thank you for telling us. We need to go," Fisk muttered, grabbing me arm and leading me out of the office. His steady pace and firm grip were the only things that kept me from running all the way back to the inn.

-o-

There had been a murder in our inn. It could have been any time between super the night before and lunch that day, though 'twas more likely to have happened in the night. The dead man was in the bedroom right beside ours.

Belmont was understandably upset. He alternated between fretting over the poor man, sobbing over how he should have done something to keep the killer out, panicking over how he would have to find where the man was visiting from and inform his family, and from time to time worrying about what this meant for his business.

Aaron, had he ever been given a voice, likely would have still been as silent as he was just then. He was the one who had been standing out in the bad with us that morning, meaning that if the killer wasn't a patron, 'twas Aaron that they had gotten past. Although that Aaron was the one who found the dead man, cold and waxy with a purple collar of bruises around his neck, might have had something to do with the blank look on his face as he nodded absently to Belmont's concerns.

I might have been over their comforting Belmont, except that every now and then he might stop his rambling to catch his breath, and while doing so look at me in a way that gave me chills. If the killer _was_ a patron, who was more likely than the unredeemed man who showed up in town the same night as the first murder?

The murder we couldn't attribute to Godwin any more than we could this newly dead stranger from out of town.

The sheriff arrived with additional men mere minutes after Fisk and I, thought Fisk had to remind me of this, for I'd been upstairs at the time and was, admittedly, somewhat stunned with the body myself.

"If nothing else, the fact that you look so completely shocked should help support that you're innocent," Fisk told me when he pointed out that there were more men in the inn that before.

"It won't bring that man back to life."

Elliot Sanders had been passing through town, the same as we'd been trying to. Belmont told the sheriff when he came down from observing the crime scene that the man had arrived in the middle of the afternoon the other day, well before it was too late to make it to the next town, saying he would rather stop for the day and guarantee himself a warm meal than risk arriving in his proper destination too late for dinner. No meal was worth a man's life, and another chill ran down my spine.

"Did you see him with anyone from around town?" Portman asked. He glanced my way as he spoke.

I had no alibi. Aaron was with us that morning, and we'd been at the sheriff's through noon, but there was no one to account for me all night.

Belmont looked to me as well, and drew up his breath to start.

"I spoke to him last night," Fisk interrupted. "I had a card trick I'd showed him, and he figured it out and beat me at it, but I'm not so daft as to kill a man over that. We'd only wagered brass."

Belmont smiled lightly, but didn't let Fisk's confession distract him. "I did see that. Lost a bit of money to the lad myself, and I'm sorry to say I was in the back getting dinners onto plates when someone figured out the trick. I didn't see that man… Sanders, was it? I didn't see Sanders talking to anyone else much, but I _did_ hear him say the strangest thing." Belmont glanced at me again, and I learned that 'twas indeed possible for my heart to sink all the way to my feet. "He… well, this is incredibly strange, but he said he saw someone using magic."

Had Fisk not nudged me, I'd have been too stiff from strained nerves to look away from Belmont and see Aaron straighten up, looking as alarmed as I felt.

"Human magic?"

"That's what he said. One of the patrons, he claimed. He was somewhat drunk as it was, and I had to help him up the stairs to get to his room," Belmont explained. "He kept telling me that he saw the boy work magic on the soapy water he'd been cleaning with."

Fisk smiled at me in relief. Aaron was the cleaning boy, and Belmont had let slip to me that he used magic on the soap.

Having helped Aaron clean last night, seen the soap glow, and felt it prick against my skin as I wiped down tables, I was especially aware of the magic Aaron worked on his supplies.

Belmont, who had all but certainly been told by Aaron about me and seen me handling that same soapy water, went on, his voice softer than before. "I thought he was a nice kid. He seemed too young to have seen much trouble, and he always helped Aaron out, but he _is_ unredeemed."

It hardly mattered that Belmont lowered his volume. All eyes were now on me, save for Aaron, who continued to watch Belmont as though _he_ were the one being accused. And it _was_ him Sanders had seen, curse it! I would never give so little thought to my magic as to use it on soap!

"Aaron told me once that he sensed some magic in Sevenson, though he had that sense to tell me quietly. The way Sanders was going on about it… well, I thought he was drunk at the time, but I don't doubt that Sevenson could have heard. If he meant for it to be kept a secret…"

I hadn't heard anything from Sanders, but I was certain that I'd gone far too pale to convince anyone of my innocence. If my magic were to be exposed, what would they make of it? An unredeemed man who everyone believed killed to keep a secret. They could do whatever they wanted about my power.

"Michael was with me all night!" Fisk protested, though he was pale too.

"And I suppose you were awake the entire night?" Belmont fired back. "There's no knowing for sure when Sanders was killed. Michael could have snuck out while you slept."

The urge to argue as well rose within me. I had no great desire to drag Aaron into this mess, but to be blamed for his carelessness was wholly unfair, if 'twas truly his magic that Sanders saw.

"I wasn't the one who—"

Enough," Portman cut in. "Mich… Sevenson, it seems we'll have to hold you a little longer. Much longer this time. No more letting you out until we know for sure who was behind all these killings."

And Godwin could only account for the three deaths I had an alibi for.

-o-

The sheriff might no longer have been certain that I was truly a good person, but one man on his payroll still seemed fond of me.

"Welcome back, Michael," Theodore said without a drop of sarcasm as he passed me a late lunch and the book I'd left unfinished the other day.


	17. Chapter 17

_Fisk_

There wasn't anything I could accomplish by sitting around and worrying for Michael. Belmont had destroyed any defense we might have had. The most I could do to keep from crumbling was to remind myself that Portman had only said to hold him. They were holding Michael, not executing him. If I could just find Harold and Sanders' killer before they decided they already had the killer locked up, then I could fix this.

How thorough would Portman be looking for another killer? Had we even mentioned that we thought there was another. He had to realize there was more than one. Godwin _had_ to be behind the three, and there was no one to account for Harold and Sanders. Could I trust Portman to be rational and wait long enough to do a proper investigation, or would he be happy to say it was the unredeemed man who came to town just before people started dying? He might still be mad about his cousin—but that was Godwin's doing! Portman had been fair up until now. I had to keep reminding myself of that. Portman had been fair up until now, and I didn't need to think about how Michael was the only one who looked suspect in Harold and Sanders' deaths.

Maybe we'd lucky and he would try to kick Michael out of town again. We should have left when we had the chance! I'm not to optimistic sort, but in the hopes that the task might calm me enough to think straight, I went back upstairs and packed mine and Michael's things. If we did get the chance to go, I wanted to leave before anyone changed their minds.

Once I was done packing everything I went to pace around the first floor again, and found Aaron blocking the door.

_I'm sorry._

"Sorry won't do much good it the sheriff decides that hanging Michael will stop the killings. He doesn't need proof to hang an unredeemed man, you know." And that might prevent any more deaths too, if our second killer was using Michael's presence to get away with murder. Though how he knew when he could do it was beyond me. I wouldn't be shocked if half the town knew when Mihcael was in or out of jail by this point, but we had barely been in Cranbor the first night. There shouldn't have been enough time for news of his presence to spread before Harold was killed.

Aaron turned a faint shade of green. Apparently he _didn't_ know that Michael's life depended on the good will of a man who just lost his family. But at least the lout had the decency to confess to me what I was already certain of. _It was my fault. Belmont was only trying to do what he thought was right. That man did see magic but—_

"Not Michael's," I cut him off. "He caught you making that soap… I don't know… clean better. Whatever you enchant it to do."

Aaron's immediate reaction was for his eyes to widen in horror, but he quickly gathered himself together. My glaring might have helped speed up the process. _I should have known you were told about that. If I told Belmont then I should have expected that Michael would tell you. _Aaron shook his head. _I heard that man talking last night but I wasn't worried. It isn't the first time I was caught and no one ever believes it when someone says I have magic. Belmont should have known he meant me_.

"You shouldn't have told anyone about Michael."

_Michael shouldn't have told you about me. I told him to keep secret._

He was right that it was unfair to want him to keep quiet when Mihcael hadn't, but I didn't feel much like being fair. "When did you tell Michael this? He mentioned your magic before the two of you ever conversed."

Aaron began a gesture to indicate the time, then froze for a good ten seconds and hid his hands behind his back.

"Fine. Don't tell me. But you know what? At least _I'm_ not broadcasting that you have strange powers and telling the sheriff that you killed a man just because you have something to hide. And I ought to tell people too! Don't think for one second that if they try to put Michael, that I'll let him be sacrificed just to keep your secret."

I pushed him aside then and stormed downstairs, intending to demand and explanation from Belmont. Aaron followed, heavy footed to make up for his inability to call out for me to wait. It didn't matter in the end. Belmont was gone. Helping find the next of kin, one of the remaining officers told us. When I insisted I needed to speak with him, I was assured that I could keep my room at least until they tried Michael, although they would want someone at the door in case I was planning anything.

I couldn't tell anyone about Aaron. Not yet, at least. If they really did plan to hang Michael, I would expose Aaron and use that to throw doubt on Michael's guilt. Until it came to that, Michael wouldn't forgive me for exposing Aaron. I could already hear him lecturing me on how it hadn't been Aaron on betrayed him and we shouldn't go telling everyone his secret. Having just had his own powers publically acknowledge by someone, Michael might even be angry with me for daring put someone else in his place.

I still avoided Aaron for the rest of the day, which wasn't hard. With Belmont gone to help with the Sanders situation, Aaron was the only one around to keep an eye on the inn. All I had to do was walk off the premise. To keep occupied while I was out, I visited Harold's employer again, and got sent to the stables by an exasperated wife to ask around for possible hints as to who could have it out for him. So I ended up back by the mines, where I first asked at the stables there about any relation between Harold and Godwin, and when that got no results, any other people Harold was often seen with. For good measure, I mentioned what I'd heard about him fighting with Aaron.

"I don't really remember that too well," one stable boy told me. "I think it was the mute boy's fault. Harold said that boy showed him something, then lied and swore he never did. But that was the boy who saved everyone in the mines, so people believed him. 'Course, I only heard the story from Harold. I'm sure they both did things wrong, whether that mute boy showed him something or not."

Something like magic? It felt silly to ask. Aaron had seemed more savy about his abilities than Michael, and Michael had the good sense to hide them right off the bat. But he also said he'd been caught more than once.

"Did he seem honest to you?"

"Honest enough. He didn't talked much, but when we did get him to chat with us he seemed nice. I think the thing with that mute burned him pretty bad."

I spoke to Harold's parents next. We'd talked to enough people who were close to Mary, so putting of visiting Harold's family any longer seemed silly.

They were suspicious of me, being friends with an unredeemed man and all, but Michael had been released from prison enough times that they seemed tired of getting riled up over it. And tired was the best way I could have described them. Their house had clearly fallen into neglect as of late, with dishes growing mold in the kitchen and dirt and dust beginning to collect on the floor and furniture. I almost didn't sit in the couch they offered for me, and did decline the drink. Who knew when the cup it would be served in had last been cleaned?

Both kept expressionless faces from when I first showed up explaining my presence to when I was seated, but the moment I asked "Could you tell me a bit about Harold first? I'd like to know him a little better," Mistress Carter excused herself from the room. Her husband put on a strained smile and pretended not to hear her through the door that she hadn't properly shut in her hurry. To make him feel more comfortable, I matched the look and followed his lead in ignoring the muffled sobs.

Harold's father told me nothing I didn't already know, or at least strongly suspect. They loved their little boy and missed him dearly. He was good and honest by their reckoning, but most parents like to think that of their child. Most importantly, Harold's father knew exactly what Harold claimed Aaron had shown him: magic.

Harold Carter had no connection to Godwin and his victims, but I had a tie between him and Sanders. Both had known that Aaron could use magic.


	18. Chapter 18

_Michael_

'Twas only the night after my latest arrest that Godwin was brought down and left in a cell beside mine. From the look of the deputies who dragged him down, I guessed that he had fought back when they came for him. The sizable bruise on the side of Godwin's head explained why he was no longer fighting.

We were left alone in our cells after that. For an hour or so, this was pleasant. Then Godwin recovered enough from his blow to the head to take to speaking.

I had finished my first book and moved on to a ballad, and 'twas quite entertaining, but 'tis hard to read when a murderer is in the cell next to you. Particularly when he rants about what he'll do to the men who locked him in there. Still, I tried my best until he removed his boot and began to bang it on the bars of his cell.

"_Please_ don't do that."

"Thought I saw someone else in here," he replied. Our cells had three solid walls with one side lined by bars and, being side by side, we couldn't see one another. I was content with not seeing him, and would have been happy if I was done hearing from him too, but he went on. "You're the one who came by the mines, aren't you? The unredeemed one. And look at us. The only two in this place. I bet they're just prejudiced against Michaels."

Something thumped against the wall then, and he broke into a string of curses. I waited patiently for him to settle down before pointing out, "They have a reason to suspect both of us."

Godwin tsked. "Can't believe they'd lock me up with some unredeemed—" Nothing he said beyond that point was appropriate to repeat, and I attempted to pick up my ballad.

I was still searching for my spot on the page when Godwin hit his boot against the bars again. "Listen, Sevenson!"

"I heard. You're not happy to have been left with an unredeemed man. I'm far from happy to have been left with a murderer myself," I told him.

He snorted. "As though you didn't kill the stable boy."

I didn't. But the accusation of killing Harold did shake me. 'Twas not my hope that Fisk had been right, and I didn't want to accept the implications of Godwin suspecting me of only that death.

"So you admit you killed your fiancée?" I asked back.

"The witch never had any interest in me," he answered. Well, he hadn't necessarily said _witch_, but 'twas close enough.

"And after Fisk and I went to talk with you, you killed that man at the inn to frame me."

"Man at the inn? You don't mean the one you were stayin' at." He sounded sincerely startled, but I didn't have Fisk's talent for seeing through lies, and without being able to observe his face I wasn't sure how sincere he truly was. "So you killed a second one, did you?"

I chose to ignore the accusation. Everyone else thought I killed Sanders anyway, so why bother with what Godwin thought it the situation.

"You and Mary weren't getting married, were you?"

Godwin was silent for long enough that I started searching for my place in the ballad again. No sooner had I found it than did he resume speaking. "Drew was already starting to say I'd done it. If I told people 'Michael Sevenson' silenced him, then it sounds like he mixed up our names. One more murder being pinner on a murderer doesn't matter anyway."

"I didn't kill Harold," I told him. "I swear to you I didn't."

"Well I had nothing to do with that kid either, so don't go pinning it on me."

I wasn't sure if he had said that intentionally or not. The hypocrisy of it ruffled me all the same.

"So if you weren't the one who killed him, who was I trying to pin?" Godwin demanded. "Went to all that trouble to make it look the same as your murderer and now you're saying it wasn't you."

I didn't answer. He seemed sincere to me. At least, there hadn't been any obvious change in his tone. So Fisk had been right when he said there were two murderers on the loose. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. One had known I was there the night we were turned away from town, and Godwin had mimicked that man.

No. The first killer hadn't just known I was there the first night. He's also known when I was in prison. 'Twas Godwin who always struck when I had an alibi. This second murderer knew when I could properly be framed. I didn't recall seeing Aaron that first night—and I would have had be been there—but 'twas possible he had heard about my presence. He had fought with Harold, and might have attacked Sanders too, to keep his powers a secret.

But that didn't sit right with me. Aaron hadn't just pushed us to find Harold's killer. He'd worked magic on the sheriff so we would be able to stay and keep looking. It could be that he wanted me around to frame again if need be, but I felt he truly wanted whoever killed Harold to be brought to justice.

Then who else might have known that they could get away with murder and leave me to take the blame? I didn't think any of the men who had been as the Chestnut our first night were still in town. They had no reason to go after Harold that I might know of, and wouldn't have been there to kill Sanders. Had one of those other inn patrons been responsible, 'twould mean there was a _third_ killer loose to account for the latest victim.

The only other possibility that occurred to me was that someone from the sheriff's department, someone who had been involved in my arrest, might be the culprit. They would have been among the first to know I was in town, and wouldn't leave. It may have even been Portman, who had felt I was trustworthy despite being unredeemed.

I resolved to raise my concern to Portman in the morning. Even if he was the killer, in which case he might have me hanged on the spot to keep me from talking to anyone else, he would at least know that his murders were what inspired Godwin to kill his family. 'Twould be a fitting punishment, if true. And if he was the one who framed me, I had no hope of escape anyway. I would rather take the risk and perhaps give him guilt enough not to kill again then only be let out of my cell for a few days the next time he wanted to take a life.

-o-

My attempt to speak with the sheriff was nothing short of a disaster.

Portman came to interrogate both of us after breakfast. He began with Godwin, who had given up on trying to get a confession out of me some time after midnight. I have to admit, Fisk is much better suited for staying up so late than I am, being more of a morning person myself, and I had not handled such non-stop chatter so late into the night as well as I would have liked to.

I didn't hear his conversation with Godwin, who was taken to a separate room to be interrogated. It must have gone poorly, though, for when the sheriff returned he walked stiffly and with his lips pressed in a thin line. Godwin was returned, and then it was my turn to follow the sheriff into a private room for questioning.

"I already asked you about Harold Carter," he told me. "I doubt your answer changed and I don't think it was you anyway. The Chestnut is too far from the mines. If you were going to slip out of the inn and kill someone when you knew no one in town, the chances of there being no one else you encountered on the way to that stable who could have gone as unnoticed until you were gone are too low. Of course, we have another suspect locked up who would have been right by the scene of the crime most of the day. Your friend has maintained that Godwin was behind my… was behind the next three deaths. Do you want to stay by this story too?"

"Yes. He—"

"Alright. If nothing else, I know you couldn't have been behind Mary and Richard's death. The problem, Sir Michael, is that you are the most likely one to have killed Sanders yesterday. A third party has vouched for your guilt, and you were in the perfect position to go after him. Although whether or not the motive we were suggested you had is true or not…" He let that thought trail off. The gods granted magic only to select plants and animals, and to those humans who had no more wits than an animal. Were it not for Ceciel, it should have been impossible for an intelligent human like myself to have magic. But when you wander from town to town claiming to be a knight errant, your sanity is often called into question.

As for Aaron, I had no idea how he came to have magic. We'd heard nothing of him being experimented on as I had, nor of vanishing for some time when he could have been used as a test subject. He wasn't dumb either. Well, not in _that_ sense. If his powers were the god's idea of a good pun, then 'twas a good one.

"Well," Portman folded his hands and rested his chin upon them. "Are you going to tell me why you killed him? I'm curious to know why these supposed magic accusations needed silencing. Perhaps you have a Gift you don't want others to know about?"

A story Fisk told me about a man who made a good deal using a Gift for card games crossed my mind, but I had no Gifts to help me cheat, and preferred not to touch my magic.

"It wasn't me," I said, rather than explain all that. "I never went into his room. We learned he was dead while we were reporting our suspicions of Godwin."

"Then I suppose Godwin was behind Master Sanders as well?" It shouldn't have been, but 'twas too hard to tell if the note in his voice was sarcastic or hopeful.

"I… I haven't the slightest idea who might want Sanders dead," I told him truthfully. "Godwin has spoken to me very candidly about your family and his friend, but all through the night he sought to get a confession from me of Harold and Sander's deaths, and a couldn't believe he was behind them."

It had been a mistake to mention our conversation. I was grilled for what felt like hours on it, and accused of lying about Godwin's honesty several times. And when I tried to mention my wonders about someone working for the sheriff having done the killing, I was immediately accused of trying to take the blame of myself. By the time Portman was done with me, I was near ready to lie and say I had killed Sanders just to be done with our wretched session.

'Twas only once I returned to my cell that I realized what Portman had meant to say they had another suspect for Harold. He truly believed I was Sanders' killer, and with evidence that I might not have killed Harold, wanted to believe 'twas the other Michael who was behind that death. And why not? 'Twas cursed unlikely for two locals to decide to murder in a town that had known peace for so long on the same day an unredeemed man passed through.

Godwin had only gone after people close to him, who could have gotten him caught. If there was a pattern to the other killer's victims then I hoped Fisk was having better luck seeing it than I was. As far as I could figure, anyone might be the next to die. And the sheriff, content with the idea that he had both killers locked away, wouldn't look for our second murderer until some other poor soul was killed. And there was no way to warn Fisk of the sheriff's complacence. No doubt he would be on his best behavior and avoid bothering Portman too, knowing his distrust of the law and Portman's earlier outburst. I had to do _something_. Surely if the other killer was caught then the would forgive me for escaping.

But how was I to escape? The only other time I'd been captive so long, Fisk had rescued me. He wouldn't risk arrest only to break me out of jail and keep me in town. It would only be once an execution date was set for me that he took drastic measures. I would have to find a way out on my own.

A thorough search around my cell revealed nothing I could use, but I did have one tool, if I truly thought it was worth catching Harold and Sanders' killer.

Recalling those soft stones Aaron had left by the mines, I first tried to weaken the walls. Make the stones lighter and malleable.

Nothing happened. My power wouldn't budge. I tried to feed it the urgency to get out and find the man had killed a young boy and an innocent travel, and might soon kill again, but 'twas no use. I hadn't the slightest idea how to do what Aaron had and reverse the nature of something. Or perhaps 'twas that I had no idea where to start looking on freed, and this uncertainty capped my magic.

No freak power would out-stubborn me. Focusing instead on how heavy and brittle stones were, I threw both my need and my will at my magic, and forced the power to rise up.


	19. Chapter 19

_Fisk_

Harold Carter's mother summoned me and Aaron the next day to ask about my interest in Harold. I already knew everything I needed. He'd come home one day claiming Aaron could use magic, Aaron had denied it to their other friends, Harold had been accused of lying and cast off by the group, and he and Aaron hadn't spoken... well, hadn't _interacted_ since. I was convinced, but she hadn't believed my claim that Aaron wanted justice for Harold, so I had to bring him back with me.

I expected her to cry again, but one look at Aaron at her doorstep and she stiffened up. With a scowl, she stepped out and shut the door behind her. Apparently people who might be friends with her son's killer were allowed in her house, but Aaron wasn't welcome there.

"You were interested in Harold," To her credit, her throat didn't sound too constricted when she spoke, and there was no inflection where you could tell grief kicked in. Anger, it seemed, as a good diversion from her sorrow. Even if _we _accomplished nothing talking to her, venting to Aaron might do her some good. Normally I wouldn't care, but since the one getting torn into let Michael take the fall after being careless with his powers, I was alright with that.

Aaron lifted his hands, and Mistress Carter grabbed them and pushed them down. I hadn't realized there was a way to further silence a mute, but there it was.

"You lied," she told him. "I knew Harold. I knew he meant what he said and I don't care what you are or aren't, but you told him your little secret then lied, and you turned everyone against him. And now you want me to believe you _care_ what happened to him?"

She was still holding Aaron's hands down. He struggled a bit to free them and explain himself, but she kept her grip firm.

"They say the unredeemed man was at your inn the night Harold died. You ruined Harold's life over a little secret that no one else even believed. How do I know that wasn't enough for you. They say you're a hero, Wheeler, but I've seen your true colors."

Wheeler, I assumed, was Aaron's last name. But I had never thought to ask about that.

Aaron managed to free his hands and began flashing through gestures too fast for me to follow, but Mistress Carter seemed to have no problem with his speed. I sat back and listened to half the conversation then. It took longer than I would have liked, but Aaron, at some point, convinced her of his sincerity. From what I gathered, this took admitting to magic and explaining why it was such a problem that Harold hadn't kept it secret, but I could only base my guess on how Mistress Carter reacted to what he told her. Even so, Mistress Carter never stopped defending how her son had acted when he and Aaron fought.

They moved from there to a discussion on how neither of them knew who might hold a grudge against Harold, as Aaron was most certainly not the killer and they didn't know who else he might have angered. I didn't pay much attention to their speculation, instead finding myself fixated on how Mistress Carter stood up for Harold even when, from what I could understand of the fight, they both knew that he was the one who had broken Aaron's trust first.

Even dead and buried and more in the wrong than Aaron, she defended him. That was something you did for family. Max and I didn't get along, but I'd still damn near gotten myself killed clearing his name, and sentenced a killer to a fate worse than death while I was at it. What if someone had directly been threatening his life? Well, I may have cheered them on, still being a little sore about being kicked out an all, but I would have stood up for him in the end, if only because I needed him alive to provide for my sisters. And what if someone had threatened Anna?

Mistress Carter didn't care what Aaron was, but Harold saw Aaron use magic and tried to tell everyone. Or rather, Aaron had _shown _Harold magic. I worried sometimes when Michael was too obvious about his ability to see magica and what might happen to him if he were found out. People fear what they don't understand. They get irrational. Just look at how Michael regarded his own powers. And if what they don't understand is also powerful, then that powerful mystery doesn't stand a chance. In the wrong place, a threat to expose Michael might very well be a threat to his life.

I didn't doubt I could harm someone who went after my sisters. What about Michael? When I thought he'd died fighting the wreckers, I was willing to do whatever it took for a chance to make them pay.

Could I kill someone if they were threatening Michael's life? Not indirectly. I'd look for another way to stop them. But if they wanted him dead and there were no other options… I wouldn't let Michael know about it of course, but…

So what about Belmont, who we knew was aware of Aaron's magic. Who we knew treated Aaron like his own child. Who we knew had seen Sanders talking about Aaron's magic. Who Aaron had no doubt confided in when Harold betrayed him. If Belmont thought that any risk of exposing Aaron's powers was a risk to Aaron's life, what might he do to someone who tried to expose Aaron?

-o-

_Yes_, Aaron told me was we walked back to the inn. _When Harold started telling everyone I could use magic, I asked Belmont what I should do. Why?_

Because I think your father figure is a crazy murderer. "I thought it may have been easier for him to do damage control. It sounds like the way you and Harold ended things was messy.

_It was._

I asked what Belmont had done to help cover things up, but missed enough of the hand signals that I couldn't use context to piece together the story. It didn't matter anyway. What did was that there was another common link between the victims that Godwin hadn't been responsible for. Both knew about Aaron's magic, and Belmont knew that they knew. The only problem was that even if Belmont held a grudge for how Harold had tried to expose Aaron, it sounded like Harold gave up on trying to convince people of Aaron's power long before he was killed. Even if Belmont was bitter about it, why wait a whole year? Who waited a year to get back at someone? Ceciel and her steward set a magica boar on us the same day we set out after them. Dawkins threw Michael off a cliff within hours of learning we knew who his fence was.

Even Worthington… well, Worthington hadn't been out to get anyone in particular, and he'd wasted no time in framing Max, but he _had_ waited to destroy the evidence. He'd waited until someone to pin his fires on had shown up.

Belmont, who'd believed in the innocence of an unredeemed stranger right from the start on nothing but gut feeling, had seen Michael's tattoos the night Harold was murdered. When Michael got into that scuffle that has us kicked out of town.

Not only did Belmont know an unredeemed man showed up in town, but that unredeemed man was going to be gone by morning, or would have been, had we decided to ride on to the next town like sensible people rather than set up camp in the rain. Michael wouldn't be around to protest his innocence, and unless Sheriff Portman was dedicated to catching a murderer in a town that didn't even have many bar fights, he would be too far off to prosecute. A warning could go out, but with no evidence it wouldn't do Michael's reputation any more harm that his tattoos and scars did.

And when that unredeemed man is sleeping under your roof it's a lot less risky to do your dirty work right there.

We'd been paying a killer to give him the excuse to commit murder in his own business establishment. I liked to consider myself good as spotting liars, and filed this failure under my list of things I wouldn't be able to get on Michael's case for any time in the immediate future.

I couldn't even think "so this is what it's like to be as gullible and trusting as Michael," because Micahael at least realized between his efforts to find good in everyone that he was easier to fool.

Then again, Michael probably still thought he was a good judge of character. And if he did, then I couldn't scold him for that one for some time either, because I'd judged Michael to have at least a little common sense, and was proven wrong about this when I returned to the Chestnut and found an officer waiting for me.

"You friend is on the loose," he said as soon as I was close. "Help us find him, and we'll wait until after you give your appeal before we hang him."

-o-

Michael had used magic. Michael had willing used magic. Michael had willing used magic to deliberately break the law. Michael had willingly used magic to deliberately break the law for no good reason.

Those last two didn't even matter. Michael had _willingly_ used magic.

That was the only way I could see him having gotten out. The jail keeper was swearing that the builders must have been at fault. It was easy to see, and made Michael slightly less suspicious. An unredeemed man held indefinitely… of course he'd make a run for it if the wall suddenly collapsed.

There was no sign that the wall had been assaulted from either side. As near as they could tell it really had collapsed, crushed under the weight of stones that were too dense. There were several men inspecting them when I was brought down, speculating as to how the mason who worked on the room years ago hadn't noticed anything amiss when many of them couldn't even lift the stone.

One man stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around one to try and test its weight, then gasped and jumped back. "They're magica!" he exclaimed. That was enough confirmation for me, but he was kind enough to go on anyway. "I could have sworn there weren't any… that is… I've been around here before and never felt anything of the sort. There's no reason I should have! Who's ever heard of magica _stone_?"

No one. Just like no one has ever heard of magica water. Or hadn't until Michael learned he could make magica anything one day while fighting a fire.

Sherriff Portman must have seen the gears in my head turning, because he drew my attention with a low hiss.

"If you know where your friend is, you'd better tell me now. We have an unredeemed murder suspect who broke out of prison. The more time we spend looking for him, the less time we'll spend on due process before sending him to the noose."

-x-

**STA**: Wheeler _is_ Aaron's last name. I don't think that ever came up before, but I had it in the story outline I typed up three years ago, and I liked the idea of Mistress Carter using it.


	20. Chapter 20

_Michael_

The clearing where Fisk and I had camped the night of the first murder looked quite different when it was dry and bright.

My first plan had been to return to the inn and let Fisk know what I'd done and what the sheriff thought, but I hadn't managed. When I first felt a dizzy spell coming on, I realized that so long as my plan included not being seen by anyone who might report my presence to the sheriff, then wandering around like a half-wit would do me no good. And 'twould be on Fisk to hide me when the sheriff came straight to him looking for information on where I might have gone.

Not knowing anywhere else to do, I'd gone to what my dazed mind had thought would be the safest place for Fisk to come and find me—our camp site. Vaguely, I made plans to establish a meeting point with him for all future towns we crossed through, but even then I realized I would never remember to mention this to Fisk.

I couldn't say how long I waited. I tried to track how high the sun was, but got my past and present mixed up. I'm reasonably certain that happened before I heard people coming, and disoriented as I was, 'tis impressive that I still had the sense to hide under a bush when they arrived.

"—I doubt he'd be here anyway."

I recognized Fisk's voice instantly, and shifted so that I was slightly in view. He was accompanied by several men from the sheriff's office, who I realized after a minute of watching in confusion must have been trying to capture me. They poked around the clearing while Fisk scanned the bushes.

My eyes caught his for a moment. Then he looked past, but gestured for me to back up. He seemed more confident of what was going on than I felt. I scooted back into my bush and stayed hidden.

Going over the gesture in my head a few times, I interpreted it to mean I should stay hidden until the danger had passed. Although I did worry that Fisk might be in danger. Was he suspected of something, or only assisting in a search?

I hoped he might stay longer so I could figure out if he was in danger, or so he could tell me what had happened with him since my arrest once the men who accompanied him had left. To my disappointment, when the men left, he followed after them.

I sat in the dirt for some time after, wondering what to do next. As Fisk clearly didn't intend to help me, I was on my own. Since forcing my magic up I had noticed a dream like quality to things around me, with magic standing out in my vision so sharply I swore I could see it through solid objects. In a hazy sort of way, I could recall that magic was somehow important to the latest murder and thought I might make use of this sight, but what the relevance of magic was escaped me, as did how I could apply my own abilities.

I was trying to recall what was so important about the murder when I heard footsteps and peeked outside the bush again. I'm not so familiar with my squire that I can spot his legs from anywhere, but I'd watched those boots as he helped the deputies search, so they weren't impossible to recognize.

I saw no other legs, so I crawled out from the bush and stood. The world spun with the motion, and it took two attempts to get myself upright.

"You look terrible," Fisk said once I was steady. It must have been true, if he chose to say as much over telling me I'd done something foolish.

"I feel a bit…" the word dizzy wouldn't come to me. "Yes."

"You feel a bit yes…" Fisk sighed and shook his head. "Nevermind. I can help you back into town. They're searching in a wider perimeter now, so this is the safest time we'll have to sneak you back into Cranbor."

"Cranbor?" I tried to recall where that was. "Oh. Did we ever thank Mistress Kara for her help?"

"Did we—" Fisk cut himself off, looking at me in confusion. "Michael, that was three years ago. Even if we didn't—and believe me, I couldn't have thanked her enough—why would you think of that now?"

It seemed I'd recalled the wrong town. "Nevermind. I'm just feeling a little… dizzy! That's the word. I feel dizzy!"

I was proud of myself for recalling it.

Fisk put a hand to my forehead and frowned. "It doesn't feel like you have a temperature… Well, this is the safest time to get you back. Just follow my lead and we might not be killed trying to get back to the inn. I should mention that they do intend to kill you now, Noble Sir."

It had been a while since he called me this, and even half stupid with whatever had afflicted me, I bristled at the name. "I can think straight enough, Fisk."

I don't think you've been thinking straight at all since you first thought to get out of your cell. In any case, we're wasting precious time. We need to hurry back before anyone thinks to backtrack and see if they overlooked you earlier."

-o-

'Twas late when we made it back to the inn. Fisk had woven us through a great many streets trying to avoid having me seen, and even if I weren't still dizzy, my head would have been spinning trying to keep track of where we were.

I feared his efforts were for naught when I saw a glowing figure waiting at the door, but as we got closer I could see that 'twas only Aaron. This made sense when I thought about it, as Aaron was the only person I knew who glowed. Aaron had been good to us so far. Fisk didn't notice Aaron until we were closer, which I attributed to the darkness of the streets. Though how I could think straight enough to know that Aaron didn't glow for Fisk, yet not recall that no one else glowed for me I couldn't say.

Fisk waved, and Aaron waved back. With a glance around to make sure no one was looking, Fisk sped up to cross the street the Chestnut was on. Unprepared for the acceleration as I was, my stomach lurched, and I had to stop to empty it.

Fisk waited until I was done, patted my back, and gently guided me the rest of the way. What came of the mess I made, I don't know. Aaron cleaned it, perhaps. 'Twould be best not to leave anything suspicious just before the inn where I was known to have stayed. If I'd thought of it at some point during the rest of our stay in town, I would have thanked him for doing so, but that Aaron had to clean up after me didn't occur to me at the time. When Fisk succeeded in getting me to our room, all I wanted was to lay down and never get up again.


	21. Chapter 21

_Fisk_

Whatever was the matter with Michael, it only got worse throughout the following day. I'd tried to share my suspicions of Belmont with him once we were safe in our room, but he'd collapsed onto the bed and ignored all of my attempts to talk to him.

At the point that he was clearly asleep I gave up and went down to thank Aaron for getting us inside safely. It didn't fully make up for his keeping quiet as Belmont framed Michael, since we wouldn't have needed to sneak Michael anywhere had Aaron not played more mute than he was, but it was a start. And Aaron probably didn't know Belmont was our number one suspect anyway. He at least seemed earnest in wanting Harold's killer caught. I was aware of the possibility that he was in on the whole thing, but if he thought he could absolve himself of suspicion by pushing us so hard to find Aaron's killer that we were guaranteed to look wherever we could, he probably was simple enough for it to be understandable that he had magic.

If Belmont wasn't telling Aaron everything, there was no reason Aaron needed to be so open as well. I offered to help clean up Michael's mess and, once we were both crouched down on the street wiping up vomit, mentioned that Belmont didn't need to know he was housing a fugitive.

Whether he was in on Belmont's crimes or not, I wasn't about to share my suspicions with Aaron. That was the sort of insane honesty that even Michael usually had the sense not to attempt. I did, however, point out that if Belmont were genuinely surprised to see Michael in his inn, should Michael be caught, then that would help to alleviate suspicion that he had deliberately hidden a wanted man.

Aaron seemed relieved when I suggested that we could keep Belmont out of trouble with the law. That it kept Aaron out of trouble with Belmont too may have also been a factor. Whichever was the case, he nodded along to everything I said. He seemed entirely sincere, and I had little choice but to trust that he would help anyway. There was no one else I could go to to help hide Michael, and if he was faking being an ally, all the wariness in the world wouldn't change that he could go to the sheriff at any time.

I told myself that I'd done the best I could and whatever happened next was out of my control. And I laid awake the whole night wondering if someone my come bursting through our door.

-o-

The next morning Michael slept in. He was one of those people who somehow had energy first thing in the morning, so the part of me that also wanted to sleep in was grateful for this, but once I was fully awake I found his behavior concerning. Still, it had seemed like he was coming down with something the other day, so rather than wake him I slipped out and went to practice the act that I had failed to set up the last time Michael was so seriously wanted. I set out around town looking concerned, listening in on gossip, and searching for any news on Michael and whether or not my dear, missing friend was okay.

Sherriff Portman knew I cared about Michael's wellbeing, so I didn't waste any time being subtle. I started with his office. If one of his deputies wasn't happy to see me, then too bad. They had no evidence that I'd done anything wrong. They had no leads on Michael either, and if I spent enough time wandering around town and stopping to look hopeful when I heard the townspeople mention him, they might decide they also didn't have any reason to suspect that I knew where their escaped prisoner had gone.

If I thought I could afford it, I'd have spent the whole day looking. Maybe even put on a show the next few days before claiming Michael had left me behind and asking if I could leave town. Sneaking Michael out wouldn't be impossible, and if _I_ was free to go I could even take the horses. So Michael would have no reason to complain. I would send him one way and walk off the other so as to throw Portman off Michael's trail, and we could meet up in another fief. It wouldn't be my first time having to split and rejoin with a travel companion that way.

The smallest of the problems I had to face was that reason or no, Michael would still complain. I would have bet all the money in my wallet that he was complaining poor Aaron's ears off just then, wanting to find the second murderer rather than hole up in a tiny room and hide.

Not entirely trusting that he had the sense to stay hidden, I didn't take too much time putting up an act of looking for him. Midway through the afternoon I gave up and went back to the Chestnut.

When I returned I found myself grateful that I hadn't actually made a bet with anyone on Michael's behavior. Not that there was much in my purse to lose. I returned to find Belmont blissfully unaware, Aaron hard at work, and Michael still lying in bed.

That on its own was highly concerning. Michael had never been one to waste time lying around. He had seemed off the night before, but not terribly so. I checked for a temperature again, but he still felt alright.

He shifted when I touched him, and I realized that he was awake, despite his eyes being shut.

"Michael?" I shook him softly by the shoulder. "Michael, are you okay?"

He squirmed out of my grasp and pulled the bed sheets tighter around himself.

"Michael!" I shook him a little less softly.

He swatted me and rolled over before offering a sparse response. "Just bored."

Being crammed in a tiny room that you couldn't leave for fear of arrest and execution would do that. But at least he understood the need to lie low.

"I feel bad for telling you this, but stay put and bear with it for a little longer. Aaron is helping hide you and Belmont doesn't know you're here, so it isn't even safe to roam the rest of the inn. Just… put up with this until I find a way to get you out of town."

Michael made a vague affirmative noise.

"Sorry. At this point, I think we can't go anything about the murders. I can't tell Aaron he was Belmont's motive. I can tell the sheriff, but not without exposing Aaron's magic, and if they realize Aaron's the real deal, they might realize that you are too. I can tell Aaron to be more careful with who he lets see him use magic, but that's it. The most I can do beyond that is find a way to get you out of here without us both getting killed."

-o-

Getting Michael out, were he his usual self, would have been difficult enough. Not because of the sheriff, mind you. The real source of the difficulty, as usual, would be Michael himself. Most often, this meant Michael was stubborn as a mule and wanted to be exactly where I didn't want us. This time Michael had spent the past few days since I brought him back to the inn being impressively compliant, but it wasn't his sense of self-preservation finally developing. As near as I could tell, Michael was becoming simple himself.

I didn't know what to make of it at first. Michael had gone so long without suffering from possessing magic that I had begun to think his worries about what his powers would do to his mind were disproven. When he first mentioned his dizzy spells to me and began to forget things that had happened in the past few years, there was no taking him to a herbalist. I could only hope he would recover on his own.

There wasn't much time to worry. Portman had given up on Michael, but he knew exactly where I was. Even if he didn't suspect me of murder, he clearly didn't think Michael and I would stay separate for long. I could only count my blessings that my little stunt of making his men pay for my lodging the last time they kept an eye on me had convinced him to have me watched from a distance this time. The deputies hardly seemed subtle, set up in a room down the hall and finding excuses to loiter on nearby streets. Insultingly, they always had the same man follow me when I explored the town. But they weren't entering our room.

They did conduct a search once, and I have Aaron to thank for that incident not ending in tragedy. He worked Belmont up and got the man to unwittingly stall the deputies who came to see if I had any letters or instruction from Michael, and while they were bickering about protecting the privacy of patrons, Aaron slipped Michael into his own room. Michael had been moved back later, when Belmont was busy cooking and I watched the halls to make sure no one would come out and see Aaron helping us.

Michael couldn't leave until he was better, assuming he would get better, and then he wouldn't want to. I needed to be able to sneak myself out alongside him well if I was going to get him to safety, so I needed them to give up on me. I spent most of my time around town, pretending to search for anyone who might have known Sanders. Belmont's second victim really had been a stranger passing though, and this was a completely pointless time kill that served to make me look like I was trying to carry on solving a crime that I didn't believe my friend guilty of.

By day three I had used up all that I could afford to pay for false leads. I would have done my card trick, but I'd pulled it off enough times now that a few people were beginning to catch on, and who knew what the sheriff might think of it? Now that he was watching me the deck stayed tucked away in my pack.

Since he'd earned some tolerability back for helping hide Michael, I initiated a conversation with Aaron and agreed to help him for a discount.

Waiting on tables isn't too difficult. As far as jobs I could take in Cranbor went, it beat mining. I passed dinner plates to each of the other guests and returned to Aaron to find yet another plate waiting.

_For Michael_, he explained.

I nodded and took the tray upstairs to our room.

Michael watched me as I entered, looking dazed and confused as he studied my appearance. I forced a smile for him and set the plate down within easy reach before going to check the window. No one was watching directly, but I could see a deputy sitting at the end of the street and reading a book. They were convinced Michael wasn't in the inn, but they still wanted to know who went in or out. It would have been smarter of them to be covert about that, if they were hoping to catch Michael 'sneaking back' to meet up with me, but I wasn't about to correct them. If they were _that_ rusty when it came to dealing with serious crimes, then it would be easier to sneak Michael and myself out when the opportunity arose.

What would happen if Michael didn't come to his senses? Would I have to leave him? I could easily sneak myself out and ask Aaron to bring him later… but could I make Aaron do that?

Of course I could! It was his fault for letting people see he had magic. His and Belmont's. Curse them both. The _real_ question was if I could trust Aaron to pull it off. If he couldn't even work a spell on soap without getting himself caught, how much could I trust him to sneak Michael to safety?

"Fisk?"

But then what? Portman had sent a message to all nearby towns the first day after Michael broke out, warning to keep an eye out for him. I hadn't seen those letters either. Any concerned sheriff who did read them might feel it was his duty to pass word along to the rest of the fief, depending on how serious Portman made the situation sound. Even if Aaron could safely get Michael out for me once the sheriff thought there was no longer any point in watching the inn, we would have a lot of traveling to do before we could safely stop and stock up on food, much less settle anywhere. Having been in so much trouble as to need to keep to the wilderness for weeks on end before, I had no desire to attempt anything of the sort again.

It would be hell, and it wasn't even an option in truth. There was no way I could sneak away and leave Michael at risk just because the inn keeper was crazy. Once I was gone, there was no reason for Belmont not to come into our room. Michael would need to hide with Aaron, who Belmont almost certainly checked on occasionally too. It would only be a matter of time before he found Michael. And likely killed him to hand over, relax everyone's guard, and hide that his precious Aaron had been aiding a dangerous criminal.

"Fisk? Fisk!"

I jumped. How long had he been calling me? If he got any louder someone might hear him. "What, Michael?"

"Ah. You were ignoring me. I thought maybe that's why you won't come."

Who even knew what point in time he thought it was just then. "Won't come where, Michael?"

"To rescue me."

To rescue… _what_?

"You were supposed to get the sheriff and come rescue me. That's why I let you escape while I stayed behind to deal with Ceciel's guards. You were supposed to report what she was doing to the simple ones and have someone come for me. But you abandoned me instead. Why did you d that, Fisk? She's crazy."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I sat down and said nothing.

"Why did you abandon me?" Michael pressed. "I tried my best to be someone you could trust."

I'd known he hadn't expected me to rescue him, back when I'd gone through all the trouble of breaking into Ceciel's fort to bet him back. He'd let that suspicion slip during the rescue effort, but saying I _abandoned_ him was a little harsh. Besides…

"Michael, that was two years ago. I came back, remember?"

"You did?"

"Why else would I be standing here now?"

Michael scowled, face scrunching up as he thought hard about it.

"You shouldn't abandon people," he decided.

I forced myself to smile for him. "Don't worry. I have no intention of abandoning you."


	22. Chapter 22

_Michael_

I couldn't say much about what happened after Fisk found me. Judging by how he reacted when the fog of my mind finally cleared enough to take note, I can only guess that the time where my memory is a haze lasted over a week, and that my confusion was quite obvious throughout. Anything that actually occurred during that time I've only the vaguest memory of. Brief moments of people speaking to me or moving me around with no idea what they might be saying or where I was going.

My first clear memory is of noting the way my tattoo glowed. Why was it glowing? How had I ended up tattooed? I couldn't even guess. I showed it to my squire, and he chewed his lip and spoke to me like I was five. He didn't stop speaking this way even after I remembered what Ceciel had done to me, but I had no energy to scold him for it. For several days we went on in such an odd fashion, with me treated like a child and forbidden from leaving our small room while Fisk would disappear for hours and come back using smaller words. I wanted to punch him for it.

When I finally summoned up the will to tell him as much, Fisk immediately switched to his regular tone.

"I think Belmont was the one who killed the two we couldn't account for."

To suddenly be spoken to like normal was what I had wanted, but I found myself wishing he had simplified things and explained more. "Who?"

Fisk sighed and returned to speaking gently. "Don't worry. Just get some rest."

He tried to help me lie down on the bed. I pushed his arm away and stood. "Who, Fisk? Are people dying?" How could he keep something so important from me?

"Belmont. The innkeeper."

"What innkeeper?"

"The one who runs the inn we're staying at.

I looked around. I wasn't sure why the information was significant, but now that I noticed it, the tiny room we were staying in didn't look much like the cell that Portman had locked me away in.

Cells…? When had I been imprisoned by a man named Portman. I sat back down and rested my head in my hands, trying to summon up the memory. Not knowing where I was or where I should be wasn't a good thing.

But I couldn't work through my jumbled memories. That was fine, I told myself. They would come back later, hopefully. And until then I had Fisk. "Why are we staying at an inn run by a murderer? Does the sheriff know? There is a sheriff, isn't there?"

"Yes Michael," Fisk said. He sat next to me and took a deep breath, and I noticed for the first time how weary he looked. "Yes, there's a sheriff. He knows I'm here. He doesn't know you're here, and we need to keep it that way. He doesn't know Belmont is a killer, and we can't tell him. Belmont already blamed you for what he did. And us being here gives him the opportunity to kill anyone who learns about Aaron's magic free of suspicion, because he can just say it was you again." He paused. "But right now Belmont doesn't know you're here either."

No wonder he looked tired. It was exhausting simply trying to follow that information, and I couldn't imagine what trying to work through it was like. But Aaron, the mute who glowed, clicked something in my memory. "So we were captured?"

"What?" Fisk asked, looking as confused as I'd felt all week.

"We know Aaron has magic. Now we're in this Belmont fellow's inn. He caught us?" Now that I'm not so addle brained nor in as much peril as I was at the time, I'm able to appreciate the comical look of dawning horror that was on Fisk's face when I said this.

"We do know…" He moaned and slumped over. "I'd been so busy with you I forgot. If he finds out, he won't let us leave town alive. No, he won't let _me_ leave town alive. I can't get away with Portman thinking I'll draw you out. If Aaron can slip you out of town… no… no you're still way too spotty to be safely turned loose." He rose and began to pace, an impressive feat in such a confined space. "Then what? Aaron's told Belmont about your magic. I know he has. If he mentions that we know about his as well…"

"Mayhap we should mention it," I suggested.

"Michael, maybe you need a little more sleep. You've been… not all there for a while now. Don't strain yourself. I'd rather see you recover."

"But if the sheriff were to see this Belmont try to kill one of us, he would know the man for the fiend he is," I argued.

For a moment it looked like I had him, but Fisk shook his head and told me, "Belmont can pass off any attempts he makes on your life as trying to capture a suspected murderer. An unredeemed murder suspect who the law won't protect at that. It wouldn't work."

That I was unredeemed was news to me, but the significance of that stigma was not something I could recall clearly enough to let myself be stopped by. "Are you unredeemed and suspected of murder too, or will the law protect you?"

From the look of horror he gave me, I initially thought I had reminded him of some other bad news, but he quickly dissolved this concern.

"I will _not_ be bait."

"'Twould be perfectly safe. I'll be there to make sure he doesn't kill you. No proper knight errant would throw his squire out to be killed."

"What? You'll hide behind a bush with the sheriff and chat about how he shouldn't hang you while the both of you wait to see if Belmont tries to corner me on an empty street? You seem to be getting better, Michael, but you've always been a little crazy, and what you're suggesting now is insane. Let's wait until you're really thinking straight before we plan to get ourselves killed. You manage that often enough even when you're at your best."

Oh. Right. "Then without the sheriff there, we can—"

"Have Belmont come after us with no reliable witnesses."

I had to stop for a moment and properly sort out Fisk's concerns. Of course. He would need backup _and_ we needed a witness. "Then suppose I hide in one location, and the sheriff hides in another, and you lured this man out where we could both see you?"

"_No_."

I sighed. "Then I'll be the one to lure him out."

"He doesn't need to kill you. If he sees you, all he has to do is play the sheriff."

"Then 'twill have to be you, Fisk. We can't leave a murderer running loose."

Fisk was of the opinion that we very well could, and there would be little point in describing the argument that resulted from this. 'Tis unlikely that a person has never heard nor recognized the tedium of a dispute where one person said yes and the other said no, and in any case I have no memory of exactly how long we argued in that fashion. I only know for certain that a knock on the door was what finally stopped us.

Fisk fell silent immediately, and put a hand over my mouth when I attempted to continue insisting on my plan.

"Aaron?"

Another knock.

"Come in, then."

The door opened, and Aaron stepped in, dinner in hand. I had been forced to readjust to the light that emanated from his skin—largely because it didn't do to be frightened of the person who brought you meals—and when he smiled for me I returned the gesture. That was the furthest extent to which I could communicate with him, so 'twas Fisk who he turned to and began to make various symbols and movements with his hands. Since I wouldn't know what needed responding too, I picked up the food and ate as I watched the two converse.

"No, it was just a small argument." Fisk said. "He doesn't seem as brain damaged as before. I mean, he's still acting a little stupid, but he's getting closer to his regular stupid now."

The boy glanced at me, then made another gesture for Fisk.

"I think he'll recover. At least, I hope so. It's starting to seem like it really is temporary, and he's improving quite a bit. We were discussing how we weren't going to do anything stupid to try and flush out the killer." Fisk glanced at me or, more specifically, at my mouth. I realized it was too full of food for me to protest, and tried to chew faster so I could assure Aaron that we _were_ going to pursue the killer, but before I'd swallowed Fisk was speaking again. "We _do_ think we know who it was, but for your own sake, it might be better if we don't tell you. I would hate to have him target you."

Aaron scowled, and gestured quickly enough that Fisk had to ask him to repeat so he could have time to catch everything.

"We're not telling you so you won't run the risk of letting on that we know. You haven't exactly done a good job of keeping things secret," Fisk said. Why his tone became so dry then, I couldn't say. Aaron being mute, he struck me as someone who would be incredibly good with secrets.

Aaron looked guilt stricken, so I must have been wrong. He stayed still as Fisk finished talking. "I'll let you know if we come up with something that we can use your help with. The only plan we have anyway is Michael's idea that I act as bait, which is ridiculous."

The boy laughed soundlessly at that and grabbed the doorknob, showing himself out, before the door shut he smiled at me and flashed one last sign—a thumbs up.


	23. Chapter 23

_Fisk _

Aaron liked Michael's idea, which was just fine for him. It was his friend's killer, and he had no way of knowing how ridiculously massive that killer was. Belmont towered over me. And even if he hadn't worked in the mines for some time, he still looked like he spent his days busting and lifting loads of stone. I had no desire whatsoever to have him after me. But with Aaron pressing for me to at least _try_ and expose the murderer before he would agree to help me slip Michael out of town, and Michael determined not to leave town at all until we had captured Belmont or died trying, I had eventually been forced to concede defeat.

Two days after Michael proposed the idea, I set things into motion. At lunch that day, I told Belmont that I was interested in going back down to the mines to inspect a cave in. Michael having been Gifted, I knew a little bit about magic, and thought there was something off about the stones covering the old section of the mine. He had confirmed, watching me closely the whole time, that the rubble was from the cave in that nearly killed him.

He must have learned about Aaron's magic then, but that was only a detail. How Belmont learned and what his history with Aaron was didn't matter. He knew, and he cared enough about Aaron to kill anyone who threatened to Aaron's magic common knowledge.

The mines would be busy, and I made an excuse about wanting to check after work hours. To avoid anyone who was friends with Michael Godwin despite his murders or anyone who was mad with Michael Sevenson because of his wrongful accusations. I must have said that last bit more forcefully than I meant too, because Belmont was suddenly much too busy with scrubbing the counters until they sparkled to chat any long.

That served me just fine. For the sake of the plan I needed to say everything I had, but I hadn't want to talk with him to start with.

From there I went out to speak with the sheriff again, and while I was more willing to talk with him, that wasn't a conversation I was looking forward to either. He'd made it clear we'd worn through his patience.

I almost didn't knock on the door to his office. I could go back to the inn, go out later like I'd said I would, and scout possible escape routes rather than give Belmont his cue to hunt me down. But even acting on emotion, Portman had acted within the law. The worst he could do without proof that I was hiding Michael was bar me from his office. And it would be hard to find a good escape route if I still had his men tailing me. For that, I would need to see to it that Portman had his killer behind bars.

It would be best if Belmont was captured. I wanted him captured. I wanted the man locked away for what he did to those dead men, and especially for making Michael his scapegoat right from the start. I just didn't want catching him to involve me standing around waiting to be strangled.

I stood long enough in front of Portman's office door debating whether or not to knock that a deputy came up and banged on the door for me.

"Just a minute."

That gave me time to flee, but by then it was obvious that people had noticed I was there, and Portman would ask who had knocked if no one was there when he was ready to receive them. I was starting to feel ridiculous, trying to talk myself out of this mad scheme.

When Portman finally called through the door, "You can come in," I did my best to look friendly as I opened it. I'm sure my smile looked every bit as strained as his.

"Fisk," he acknowledge with a curt nod. "Do you have any news on your friend's location?"

Michael and I hadn't talked over how we would get Portman to come watch for another suspect when he was convinced Michael was the one. With Michael still a bit disoriented, I didn't see much of a point. He would have suggested I be honest, most likely. I had my own idea for how to go about enlisting Portman's help.

"You won't hang him first thing, right? He'll get a trial."

"He broke out of prison, so I can't imagine it will be a long trial. But if your cooperation brings helps us catch him, then I'll make sure he gets on."

Nodding, I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket. Michael's handwriting, a disorganized scribbled, had been harder to imitate than I thought. Michael would instantly know I'd tried to fake something written by himself if he saw it, and Portman likely hadn't seen anything Michael wrote and wouldn't have known if I used my own handwriting, but on the offhand chance he had seen Michael's, my quick forgery would hopefully look convincing to the sheriff.

"This was outside my door when I woke up."

He attempted to skim the note, then gave up and read it closely. Deliberately bad handwriting could make you do that. My smile became slightly less strained as his own melted into a scowl, and I knew he'd managed to decipher the phony instructions I had written 'from Michael'. That I was to head down to the mines at sundown. He would come when he thought it was all clear, and we could make our getaway.

"Does it say where specifically?"

"Michael isn't a stickler for details. He might intend to pick me up anywhere around the mines. Maybe even while I was on my way there."

"And you're alright telling us this?" he asked, critical eyes shooting up to study my own.

It was only natural to be suspicious when someone came to turn in a friend. This part I'd expected, and I easily shrugged in the face of his doubts. "Once you warn the nearby towns, he won't be able to stay there. With the letters you sent out I doubt he can safely set up anywhere near by as it is. Since he's unredeemed, a sheriff in another fife who was warned could hang him even though Michael committed no crimes in his area. I don't know how steady a man that sheriff will be. I would rather risk it with you."

Portman nodded. "Alright. I suppose he won't come if he thinks you aren't alone. We'll have men tailing you."

"You might also want to have people set up on my route," I suggested. "Maybe every few blocks or so, in case Michael notices the tail and decides to do something about them. And make sure they're disguised. I don't know if you knew this or not, but Michael's smart enough not to walk up to me when men in uniform are standing across the street." Belmont strangled his last victim in under a day after hearing him mention Aaron's magic. I wanted all the backup I could get.

Portman's cheeks turned red. So he_ hadn't_ realized how obvious his men were. "I'll see about that. Would Michael do attack someone I sent to follow you?"

"I don't know. I always figured he had more common sense than that, but then he went and broke out of jail."

Portman hesitated, and my heart skipped a beat, thinking I might have pushed my luck too far.

"Alright. We'll see about getting a few more men out there. What route exactly are you planning?"

-o-

I had a tail before I even made it back to the inn, which worried me. If the sheriff heard of anything I did next, he might realize I hadn't been completely honest in my approaching him.

Belmont was still scrubbing away, now working to get up some grime that had hardened itself on the floor. I checked first to make sure my tail was out of earshot. To my relief, he was standing across the street, and wouldn't be able to hear me or even read my lips if I made sure to turn away. I didn't want to bet on Portman agreeing to follow me twice, so if I wanted to make sure I had his men, I needed to have Belmont come the first time.

"Regular soap isn't much good for that, is it?"

He paused to glance at me, then went back to scrubbing. "Nope."

"Have you ever considered using magica soap?"

This time he only hesitated a second before trying to act natural. "Seems like there'd be better things to make with magica if you got your hands on some."

I took a deep breath as quietly as I could. "I was under the impression that Aaron could _make_ things magica."

Belmont froze.

"Don't deny it. I saw him doing it. I don't know who killed Sanders, but it was _Aaron_ he was talking about, and you lied and had Michael framed for murder just to hide his Gift."

"You think so?" Belmont said. He was trying to act calm, but his voice was too tight. Hopefully, my own sounded more righteously angry than afraid. I _was_ still furious with him on top of being afraid, so that might have helped.

"I know so. Michael swore to me that those stones from the cave in site had been made magica too. Did Aaron do that when he saved everyone?" I paused almost long enough to let Belmont respond. "I'm meeting a herbalist with a sensing Gift to have the stone checked out. Once it's verified that it's magica, I'll tell Portman. I have nothing against Aaron, but I won't let them execute Michael on false pretenses. Up until you put him in harm's way, I found you likable, so I'm telling you this as a warning. You'll want to have a story ready for when the sheriff comes to ask why you falsely testified while they were looking for a murderer."

I turned to the stairs and walked briskly towards them. If he throttled me then and there, the man tailing me would see, but my tail was an average sized man, and Belmont was much larger than average. I didn't want to worry about needing anyone to come to my aide until there would be two or three people on hand to do so. Plus Michael, if he was even able to just then.

Michael had regained enough of his sense to obey me when I told him to hide behind the door and stay quiet. I then got Aaron to stand in my doorway and politely listen as I complained about how I was still furious with Belmont for lying about Michael. What exactly Aaron thought of the rant I neither knew nor cared. Aaron would have bigger problems once Belmont was exposed. And if the plan failed, I would likely be dead, so it wouldn't matter to me what he thought of my complaining. But most importantly, whether he wanted to be there or not I could count on his presence to keep Belmont from acting against me.

As near as I could tell Belmont hadn't let Aaron in on either death. I trusted that if Belmont came after me, it would be at a time when he felt it wouldn't get back to Aaron.

Packing my things didn't take as long as I would have liked, and Aaron's patience only extended so far. After an hour I was out the door, making a show of leaving so no one would be looking when Aaron led Michael into his own room.

Finding a new inn to dump my things at, as compensation, took longer than I would have liked. Being the friend of an unredeemed murder suspect who broke out of prison was a bit damaging to one's credibility as a good, safe patron. Eventually I found a place that was willing to charge a little extra as insurance should I turn out to also be a violent murderer. If things worked out, then Michael and I would be able to move on from Cranbor before I completely ran out of money, and I could hardly stay in Belmont's inn now, so I made no attempts to barter for a lower price.

The sun was starting to set by the time I was done, so I walked back to the Chestnut then to say goodbye to Aaron and pass him a note for Michael, letting him know what route to follow and which clothes he was to wear that I'd left behind to help disguise him. The trip also served the purpose of making it easier for Belmont to stalk me, and to my relief as well as my great disappointment, he called Aaron over when we were done talking to put the boy in charge for the evening, saying he had something that needed taking care of.

I checked for my tail from the sheriff once more before setting out for the mines.

-x-

**STA**: This is officially the first _new_ chapter. Everything up until now has been a rewrite of everyone I wrote before this story went on hiatus twice over a year ago. That's actually kinda cool. Soon I'll only have one fic that was left unfinished.


	24. Chapter 24

_Michael_

Aaron was kind enough to draw a map of Cranbor for me. How well I'd known the streets before I'd scrambled my mind I didn't know, but we both agreed that I could hardly lead myself around the town as I was. I was fairly certain that only the simple ones could use magic, and had gathered that Aaron used magic, but he struck me as smart, so I had to wrong about one of the three. He took me to his room and drew up the map as soon as Fisk went to speak with the sheriff. He even labeled some important points for me, in case I had trouble telling where on the map I was.

He returned later with a letter from Fisk, detailing the path Fisk planned to take that evening, as well as what he knew of the sheriff's plans to stalk him. After a few attempts it became apparent that the fog still hadn't cleared from my mind enough for me to memorize the details of Fisk's route, so Aaron added on to the map, drawing the path Fisk would take, as well as the one he thought I should follow to avoid detection while still being able to see if Fisk needed help.

I was fairly certain that Fisk would want me disguised, and tried to work through different things he had made me do in the past ton conceal myself. Aaron, however, turned down most of the ideas I brought up. Neither of us were sure we could cut my hair properly, and while I was certain I'd heard Fisk talk about faking scars I'd no idea how to cover true ones. I could recall exactly how Fisk had forcibly altered my walk before, as well as how uncomfortable it had been, and had no intentions of mimicking that trick.

Ultimately, I decided that I should simply wear a cloak with my hood up, so as to conceal myself. Aaron took one look at me once I was dressed, yanked the hood down, and had me tie my hair back instead. Having no voice, he was unable to explain why he'd done this. But he knew what he was doing, and I was still trying to remember which town he'd drawn a map of. For the time being, I decided 'twould be best to follow his lead.

Perhaps it would have been wise to wait until I had regained more of my senses before setting Fisk out on this task. But the sooner we proved 'twas Belmont who had killed those two, the fewer people he could harm in the future. And waiting in a small room at an inn, avoiding getting too close to the window until your name is cleared, is insufferably boring. 'Twas almost as bad as waiting to learn what Ceciel had intended for me after I was captured by her. Though why that memory specifically comes to mind for comparison, I couldn't say.

I studied my reflection and decided that while tying back my hair didn't do much to hide my face, 'twould make me look different enough in the dark that I might not immediately be recognized as myself. I would need to avoid streetlights, but when I asked Aaron if those were common in Cranbor, he shook his head.

'Twas evening when Aaron snuck me out, taking me through a side door into the kitchen, then slipping me out the front door while the other patrons were distracted by Belmont. From there I was instructed to hide between two buildings with my map until I saw Fisk pass.

Left alone, crammed between two barrels with only a small sliver to peer through and watch for Fisk, it occurred to me that Aaron must have pulled my hood down because a hooded figure following Fisk would seem suspicious to the men tailing him and looking to see if anyone who might be their murderer appeared. How smart of Aaron.

With no way to track the time and nothing to do but wait, I soon found myself worrying that Fisk might have already passed by. But before my muscles had enough time to go stiff I caught a glimpse of him. I unfolded the map and squinted to see my instructions in what little light the two moons offered. There would be a man following from a distance. I had to wait until he had passed too before moving out.

The next man who passed might or might not have been Fisk's tail, but once he had walked by I stood and slipped out. Attempting to step lightly while still focusing on following the map, I stayed less than twenty yards behind him until he turned to follow Fisk down another street. As per the instructions Aaron left, I walked one more street over before turning as well, and picked up the pace until I saw Fisk in the gap between two stores.

Upon spotting him I steadied my own pace to try and match his, making sure to see him each time the street he walked became visible. There was a chance that Belmont might smother him before he could cry out. If his tail made no noise either, I would only know he needed my help because I could no longer see him.

This precaution turned out to be unnecessary. Fisk made it all the way to the mines without incident. A fence blocked off the area where he had told Belmont he would go, and he looked around once he reached it. I thought he might have spotted me when he did so—I was no standing by another side of the fence and trying to look casual—but he didn't acknowledge I was there. Instead, despite the presence of the law following behind him and, presumably, stationed here and there all along the path, he knelt down and began to pick the lock that held the fence shut.

I was certain Fisk had told me once that lock picking was not an instant procedure, so while he worked at that I found a barrel full of something heavy, rolled it to the fence, and used it to climb over. 'Twas only when I on the other side of the fence that I realized I would have no way to get _out_ of the mine grounds until Fisk finished with the lock. If he were attacked before then, I would be unable to help him, and would be easily found come morning when the miners showed up for work.

Fortunately, Fisk finished his work before anyone could attack him. I saw the fence open and Fisk walk in. And no more than three seconds later I saw a large figure tackle him to the ground.

Fisk's shout was cut short. Although it was too dark to see, I was certain there was a hand around either his neck or mouth. He'd told me many times when I pressed him to go forward with this plan that he had no desire to be strangled. I thought I should wait a second to see if the sheriff's men might rescue him, but after counting to one and not seeing them, I ran to help Fisk.

'Twas hard to be sure it was Belmont, dark as the night was, but I threw my whole body into tackling him. The force didn't knock him over, but I succeeded in throwing him off balance temporarily, and Fisk rolled out from under the man.

He rose then, and I recognized the face of the man Aaron had made me avoid at the inn. So Belmont had taken the bait.

I still didn't remember much of Belmont, but I didn't need to know much to see he wasn't a man I had great odds of winning in a fight against. I'm tall, and knight errantry is work that leads to one being in good [physical condition, but he easily had over a foot on me, with thick muscles unlike what any normal innkeeper ought to have. Still, 'twas my idea to have Fisk put himself at risk, and a knight errant wouldn't send his squire into danger then turn tail and run. When Belmont attempted to shove me aside and chase Fisk, I grabbed his arm and yanked him back with me, attempting to use his own momentum to offset him rather than try and overpower him.

It worked, at least briefly. Belmont fell with me and we both landed on the ground. But before I could do anything else I felt something collide with my head, and I blacked out.

-o-

The man standing over me when I woke up was much too small to be Belmont, which would explain why he wasn't strangling me. My head ached, but I felt no more disoriented than I had before. Having been cudgel crewed once before, I was familiar with what it felt like to be hit in the head too hard, and didn't notice any obvious symptoms. But then my mind might have been so jumbled from the blow on top of my forced magic act that I wasn't able to recognize any further failings.

I rolled over and pushed myself up, and didn't feel dizzy. That was a good sign.

The man standing over me swore. "You aren't dead."

"Thankfully." I looked around. "Where did Fisk go? Belmont?"

"They…" the man hesitated, then pointed towards one of the open mines. "They ran that way. I have to hold you here."

"Not now! Belmont is after Fisk!" I stood, and did feel a bit unsteady then, but only for a moment. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Less than a minute?"

"Then they aren't far!" I tried to run for the mines, but the man grabbed me and held me back.

"You have to stay here! We have orders to have the unredeemed man returned to his cell and watched at all times."

"Let me help Fisk!" I insisted. "Follow me and drag me back later, but before then let me help Fisk before Belmont kills him too!"

"Too?"

The man let go of me, and I stumbled forward and nearly lost my balance before running for the mines.

The sound of footsteps behind me made me glance back. He was following me.

"Whatever's going on, we'll stop it first. But after that you're to be locked up, and if you resist again then the sheriff doesn't have to keep his promise not to hang you first thing."

I didn't know what exactly I was to hang for, but that was a problem that could be dealt with once Fisk was safe. "Deal."


	25. Chapter 25

_Fisk_

What had possessed me to think I should run into the mines? The moment Belmont was off me I should have run back the way I came. Back towards Portman's men, but instead I'd panicked. Like an idiot I'd bolted away and led myself into a cave with no lighting at all and not a single man waiting to help me if I needed it.

I had stopped running after tripping over a stone, and was trying my best to keep quiet as I attempted to catch my breath, crawling along the floor of the mines and feeling the walls for a lamp that might have been left hanging. I could hear Belmont not too far behind, and I didn't know if I was more worried about what that meant for Michael or myself.

No. Michael would be fine. Probably. He went over a cliff and lived. He was too stubborn to die. And there hadn't been enough time for Belmont to suffocate him. He would be fine and I just had to make sure I lived long enough to verify that.

My hands found smooth metal. I felt the object I'd stumbled upon, and confirmed for myself that it was a phosphor moss lamp. Belmont's footsteps were audible, and I didn't dare open it and give my location away. I would use it later. Once I'd put more distance between myself and him. Maybe come day time when the miners came and I needed one of them to find me. I could only hope Belmont would give up by then. He hadn't seen any of the sheriff's men, had he? If he thought it was my word against his, he might leave without killing me.

And where exactly were those men? I'd spotted two within shouting distance of the mine, and that was on top of the tail. Had they stopped to grab Michael? If so then hopefully Portman would keep his word. Hopefully when they found my body they would realize Michael wasn't behind it. Because without him or any deputies, I stood no chance against Belmont.

It would be best not to have to face him, then. Hoping there wasn't another lamp left behind, I put the metal handle between my teeth to carry the one I'd found and resumed crawling away from the entrance.

Something thumped behind me, and a string of curses went up, then the footsteps stopped.

"Fisk?"

Did he honestly think I would answer him?

"Come out, Fisk. There's only one entrance."

I'd assumed as much. That was the way my luck often went.

"Give up. No one will blame me. Your friend is a killer, and I saw him here tonight. You were coming to meet with him." He paused, giving me enough time to realize he meant he could frame himself as a concerned citizen trying to protect the town from my dangerous self. "Someone's already caught him. He won't be coming to your aid."

Portman had _better_ keep his word. And hopefully Aaron would testify on our side when I turned up dead. Even if he didn't know who we were trying to draw out, he at least knew that I had been looking to bait a killer who definitely wasn't Michael.

And hopefully someone other than Belmont would be translating for him when he hopefully told the sheriff that. I would prefer he give an account that made it clear that Belmont was my killer, but if he wasn't going to hang for killing me then I'd settle for at least having Michael cleared of suspicion.

My hand found a hole, and I slipped. My body crashed to the ground, the metal lap clanging against the stone floor as my head smacked against something wood. I gave myself a moment to feel it and determine that it was a ladder before I heard Belmont's footsteps again.

Down the ladder it was, then. It wasn't like anyone who might need to be able to find me was coming to my rescue.

I slipped down as quietly as I could, and once I was down I stepped out from under where I guessed the hole above me was. I hadn't realized I'd forgotten something important until I heard metal clatter against stone, and wasn't surprised when a light lit above me moments later.

It would have been better if I'd left the lamp where I found it.

With a bit of light now showing my surroundings, I took a quick look around. There was only one path, and it didn't look like it went far. Without the lamp, I might be able to sneak around Belmont, climb back up, and run back towards town. Unfortunately, Belmont had the lamp.

"I'm sorry for this, Fisk."

I saw a foot step onto the ladder. It wasn't like there was much sense in hiding my location now.

"I'm sure you are. And you're sorry for Harold too? And Michael. He didn't do anything wrong."

"He's unredeemed. He did something wrong."

If I could, I would have knocked the ladder over, but I could see that the mouth of the hole wasn't wide enough to do anything worse than make it swing a few feet the other direction, and the base wasn't wide enough to kick it out and have it fall more than a few feet. If Belmont didn't have a firm grip he might lose his balance and fall. The drop might even kill him, which I could live with if it meant him not killing me. But then I had no idea if we could get Aaron to argue our case if I killed his father figure, and unlike Michael I might not get off with an unredeemed mark.

But then I also might get off even lighter. And Belmont was going to kill me for sure. I grabbed the ladder and threw my weight against it, hoping to knock it down.

It began to swing out, and Belmont moved up two rungs and grabbed the floor above.

Kicking the ladder out with him holding to the floor above, then, could have worked. Had it not been resting on an outcrop of stone that wouldn't budge, I might have been able to knock the ladder out from under him.

"Give it up. We know how this is going to end," Belmont said. "The quicker we can get this over with, the faster I'll make it for you."

Something thumped, and he looked up beyond the hole. Was someone coming after all?

"How painful did you make it for Harold?" I demanded. Not that I cared too much about Harold, but Aaron would care. If one of the sheriff's men came and heard Belmont admitting to killing Harold, that might help ensure that Aaron was on our side when it came time for a trial. And if it was Michael then I risked nothing in having him hear, save for perhaps some teasing about how he knew I was a good man. I could live with that. Mostly I just wanted to live.

He didn't answer, so I tried to throw my weight against the ladder again. It wouldn't knock him over, but it would keep him from coming down. He might even climb back up, if I was lucky.

But he held where he was, so I decided to push my luck from another angle. "No one believed Harold. He had a whole year to tell people about Aaron, and no one believed him. And Sanders was drunk. He was even less believable. Neither of them had to die. You _wanted_ them dead."

"And you?" Belmont demanded. "The more people who try to tell the world about Aaron, the more people will listen."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have framed Michael. And I would have had no reason to tell anyone it was Aaron that Sanders saw." I had been steadily raising my voice, and was relieved to see that while Belmont hadn't done the same, he at least hadn't grown quiet, or even fallen silent, as someone else did indeed approach. I was even more relieved to see that the someone who came and stood over the hole, looking down on Belmont and myself, was Michael.

He waved, and I remembered that Michael wasn't completely in his right mind just then, and was a little less relieved.

If he wasn't thinking as clearly as he should, then I would have to think for both of us and keep Belmont from noticing him.

"That's the worst of it," I shouted up. "You didn't want to protect Aaron. You wanted to get even with Harold. If he really was a threat, you would have done something about him right away, rather than wait until someone you could easily frame passed through town."

"Maybe you should have kept going when you passed through, then," Belmont said. "Let go of the ladder, Fisk. All you're doing is stalling."

A second head, one in a deputy uniform, appeared beside Michael's.

"You're right," I told him. "I _am _stalling."

The deputy allowed Belmont a full second to stare in confusion before clearing his throat and saying, "Sir, I think you need to come with me."

Belmont turned to look up at the man so fast the ladder jumped, and I was a little sorry to see that he still didn't fall.

"Me too?" Michael asked, which made the man widen his eyes in alarm. Michael, it seemed, did have to come too, which made for one man to escort two murder suspects.

"Michael, help him hold Belmont," I shouted up. "I'll be there to help once the ladder's clear."

Belmont, to his credit, made no move to resist. He might be able to get away with killing Michael or myself, but there was no way to explain the extra victim, and with my declaration that I was going to expose Aaron, it was easy to assume that he was the one the deputy had come to watch for. I saw no reason to let him know that thanks to my story it was Michael that would take the blame for a dead deputy, and I hoped the deputy wouldn't give this away either. At least not until we were past any of the men who were hopefully still at their stations, watching to see if Michael might pass by looking for me.

They hauled him up, and all three patiently waited for me to climb too.

"How soon will Portman hear about this?" I asked as I crawled up. Now that I was no longer in danger, I noticed how badly my jaw ached, and felt a bit of blood upon rubbing it. Hopefully I wouldn't end up with a scar to match Michael's.

"We'll tell him once he's awake," the deputy said, looking increasingly uncertain. "We'll have to hold the two for now."

"You heard all that?"

"I heard enough."

I nodded. "Michael, can you stay put in a cell for one night?"

Michael had the nerve to look affronted when he said, "Of course I can."

"Of course you can," I repeated. "Of course you can, Noble Sir. So I wonder why you didn't in the first place."

If he hadn't run off, that would have left me with no good excuse to get Portman's help in catching Belmont. But I was sure I would have thought of something. Something that didn't end with me hiding in a hole, certain I was going to die.

I didn't bother to mention any of this. I could already guess his reaction would be to point out that the worst I'd gotten was a bloodied chin. Risk didn't mean much to Michael after the fact. And there was little sense in starting an argument. The longer we bickered, the longer the deputy was likely to stand stupidly and watch, rather than leading Belmont out and collecting backup to hold the giant.

The longer I'd be around Belmont too, and I certainly didn't want that. I would tell Michael off again for breaking out later. Once we were both free to go. And maybe once he was fully back to himself, and able to appreciate what an idiot he'd been, too.


	26. Chapter 26

_Michael_

"They're still glowing."

"Yes, Michael. That's nice."

Fisk ignored me then, and went back to talking with Aaron, who I couldn't understand if I tried. My memories had mostly returned to me, I thought, and I could even think clearly most of the time. But for the life of me I couldn't figure out what Aaron's gestures meant. Aaron glowed too, and I was sure that had something to do with magic, but what that was and why I could see it was information that danced just out of my reach. But at least I now recognized that it was something magic wasn't meant to do.

Although there was a more concerning gap in my knowledge.

"Why do I have tattoos anyway?"

Fisk waved me off to go pack our things. The sheriff, who seemed rather disturbed by me, had told us we were free to go when he returned me to the inn that morning. It had taken two nights, not one, but I was happy to more around freely once more.

Our things were no longer at the Chestnut. Fisk, distracted with consoling Aaron, seemed to have forgotten that he'd moved them while putting on a show for Belmont. But I knew where Chant and Tipple were, so I went to fetch them.

Aaron and Fisk were both gone when I returned, leaving me unsure what to do. Rumor that I wasn't the fearsome killer after all was making its way around town, but I'd seen more than one person flinch away from me since I was let free. A reaction my tattoos almost certainly helped spur. I had no desire to wander around town while people still feared me. I now remembered having been chased by a mob shortly after I'd become unredeemed.

After waiting long enough, I decided to check different inns in the town to see which Fisk had left our luggage at. It took two tries before I found the right one, which seemed right. I didn't know the full workings of Cranbor, but it seemed to me that a mining town, even a fairly large one, could only support so many inns.

Most of our things we already packed. Fisk had only taken a few of his own clothes out, and it was easy to get those back in place. The chore took less time than I'd hoped, and I worked slowly as I secured our packs on Chant and Tipple. There wasn't much else for me to do until I found Fisk and Aaron.

'Twould be a shame, I realized, that Aaron might now have to run the Chestnut on his own. Belmont would hang. What the judicars might think of him killing Sanders to protect Aaron I couldn't say. They might think it a fair argument. But there was no excuse for killing Harold so long after the boy had stopped telling everyone Aaron's secret.

I thought then that we might offer to help. At least until he had recovered from the blow that Belmont's arrest had dealt him. For all the help he had given us, it only felt right that we help him in return.

With this thought in mind, I almost had Chant and Tipple stabled again, but Fisk found me as I was on my way and took Tipple's reigns.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. And it was about time that he took notice.

"Still a little confused. Less so than before," I told him. Looking past him, I saw that Aaron was still there, and was no accompanied by the sheriff. "Is there anything we need to do? We could stay and help Aaron."

Aaron's face lit as Fisk's fell.

"Absolutely not. We're leaving this town. Now. Right now. Before anyone else dies."

"I thought we caught both killers."

"I'm not betting on there not being another."

Portman cleared his throat. "Well, we certainly hope there isn't anyone else."

"If there is, we'll make it easy for you and remove the most obvious false lead," Fisk told him. To show that he meant it, he pulled himself up onto Tipple as he spoke.

I gave Aaron a sympathetic smile before getting onto Chant, then thought to say, "I'm sorry about Belmont."

It might have been the wrong thing to say. His mouth tightened into a thin line, and he looked away.

My heart ached for him, but I didn't know what else to do. Even if 'twas my presence that made Belmont feel he could get away with murder, I'd hardly compelled him to strangle two men. And with the town still on edge, Fisk was probably right to want us gone.

"You should be more careful," I told Aaron when nothing consoling came up. "Don't let anyone else see you… ah… making things easier."

He nodded, but he wouldn't look up at me.

Portman had been told about us. There wasn't much choice. Between Belmont's accusations and my breakout there was plenty of suspicion as to what I was, and once he needed to know Belmont's motive, Fisk had persuaded Aaron to come forward and supply it. Killing Harold, it turned out, had been a very bad idea indeed.

I thought I'd done a good job of being subtle, talking on an open street, but 'twas obvious enough what I meant to those who knew, and Portman smiled for me more broadly than I thought he ought to.

"We'll make sure this is kept a secret," he assured me. "I would hate to see someone else killing over you two's talents. Be it to control them, or keep them hidden." He looked to Fisk then, and I would have been offended by the implication if Fisk hadn't laughed.

"I would feel more like throttling Michael if he gave himself away."

"Well, we'll do our best here to see to it that any rumors about Michael and Belmont's accusations are properly quelled." Smiling for me again, he added, "You take care, now."

"I'll take good care of him," Fisk promised, which left me offended on my own behalf. I was recovering just fine, and even if there were a few details that I still struggled with, I didn't need a caretaker.

But when I tried to protest Fisk shot me a silencing look, and hurried through his goodbyes with Aaron and the sheriff before turning Tipple towards the edge of town.

I waited long enough for the two to be out of earshot before speaking. "He treated me differently than when we arrived."

"He thinks your simple," was Fisk's reply. "You must have said something after they took you away the last time to give him that impression. And knowing about your… ah… _Gifts _would certainly lend to that suspicion. I see no reason to correct him."

"I do."

"If it means he let you go easy, I don't," Fisk insisted. "We'll be gone from town soon, as it is, so you aren't likely to meet anyone here again. Anyone we come across in the future will think you're crazy because you tell them you're a knight errant."

He had a point there, but…

"Fisk, if I am a knight errant, how do I have these?" I asked, showing him the tattoos.

Now that nothing was distracting him from me, Fisk raised an eyebrow. Then snickered. "You don't remember that one yet?"

"No, so you ought to tell me."

Fisk considered it, then turned Tipple west. "We're a day's travel from the next town. Just in case someone accuses you of something there, I suppose you ought to know the story behind those marks, don't you. You cause enough trouble knowing what you're doing."

"'Tis hardly my fault if someone frames me for murder."

"But it is your fault if you break out of jail," he countered. "And if you being unredeemed makes you easy to frame, then it's also your fault for choosing to be marked."

_Choosing_? "I _chose _these?"

"We might want to walk a little slower," Fisk mused. "This story might take some time to get through."

I wracked my brain for anyone we might have tangled with who could have left me with the choice to become unredeemed. Ceciel? Maxwell? Jack? No. I felt reasonably certain that Jack had taken advantage of those marks, in one way or another. Although now that I could remember him, I turned Chant north.

"Michael."

"I believe there's a closer town this way," I said.

Fisk looked stunned for only a moment, then reluctantly turned Tipple to follow me. If I was still somewhat confused from my magic experiment, then so long as I kept up an innocent face, there was no reason to suspect I knew that north would take us closer to Tallowsport.

"I'll have to rush through the story, now," Fisk said.

"I'm sure I remember enough parts of it that we'll manage," I told him, "My memories _are_ coming back."

"Do you think this will be a common thing? Losing them when you work magic?"

"No. I've no intention of forcing my magic up as I did in that cell," I told him. "There's no telling if it won't do worse to me next time. I would rather avoid using it, if I can."

"Unless those powers work on their own."

They might, but alarming as that was, they'd yet to harm me when acting of their own will.

"Mayhap there's some way to control them when they do so, but I've no desire to try," I informed him. "Now, you were going to tell me about the tattoos. Did I mention that they glow."

"Oh, right." There was a glint in his eyes that I wasn't sure I liked. "Well, do you remember the time you broke _someone else_ out of jail?"


End file.
